UC-NRLF 


LIBRARY 

IIVEKSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


BRAZILIAN   TALES 


BRAZILIAN  TALES 

TRANSLATED  FROM   THE  PORTUGUESE 

WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION 

BY 

ISAAC    GOLDBERG 

Author  of  "Studies  in  Spanish -American  Literature,"  etc. 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1921 


19  r  rV4,lC!DADV 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
The   Four    Seas    Press 


CONTENTS 


PRELIMINARY  REMARKS   ....       7 
V     THE  ATTENDANT'S  CONFESSION     .     43 

BY  JOAQUIM  MARIA  MACHADO  DE  ASSIS 

V'  THE  FORTUNE-TELLER       ....     65 

BY  JOAQUIM  MARIA  MACHADO  DE  ASSIS 

LIFE       . 87 

BY  JOAQUIM  MARIA  MACHADO  DE  ASSIS 

THE  VENGEANCE  OF  FELIX    ...   107 

BY  JOSE   MEDEIROS   E  ALBUQUERQUE 

THE  PIGEONS 121 

BY  COELHO  NETTO 

AUNT  ZEZE'S  TEARS 139 

BY  CARMEN  DOLORES 


TO 

J.  D.  M.  FORD 

SMITH  PROFESSOR  OF  THE  FRENCH  AND  SPANISH 
LANGUAGES,   HARVARD  UNIVERSITY 


SOME    INFORMAL    PRELIMINARY 
REMARKS 

THE  noted  Brazilian  critic,  Jose  Veris- 
simo,  in  a  short  but  important  essay 
on  the  deficiencies  of  his  country's 
letters,  has  expressed  serious  doubt  as  to 
whether  there  exists  a  genuinely  Brazilian  lit 
erature.  "I  do  not  know,"  he  writes,  "whether 
the  existence  of  an  entirely  indepen 
dent  literature  is  possible  without  an  entirely 
independent  language."  In  this  sense  Veris- 
simo  would  deny  the  existence  of  a  Swiss,  or 
a  Belgian,  literature.  In  this  sense,  too,  it 
was  no  doubt  once  possible,  with  no  small 
measure  of  justification,  to  deny  the  exist 
ence  of  an  American,  as  distinguished  from 
an  English,  literature.  Yet,  despite  the  sub 
tle  psychic  bonds  that  link  identity  of  speech 
to  similarity  of  thought,  the  environment 
(which  helps  to  shape  pronounciation  as  well 
as  vocabulary  and  the  language  itself)  is, 
from  the  standpoint  of  literature,  little  re 
moved  from  language  as  a  determining  fac 
tor.  Looking  at  the  question,  however,  from 
the  purely  linguistic  standpoint,  it  is  impor 
tant  to  remember  that  the  Spanish  of  Span- 
7 


8  BRAZILIAN     TALES 

ish  America  is  more  different  from  the  parent 
tongue  than  is  the  English  of  this  country 
from  that  of  the  mother  nation.  Similar 
changes  have  taken  place  in  the  Portuguese 
spoken  in  Brazil.  Yet  who  would  now  pre 
tend,  on  the  basis  of  linguistic  similarity,  to 
say  that  there  is  no  United  States  literature 
as  distinguished  from  English  literature?  Af 
ter  all,  is  it  not  national  life,  as  much  as  na 
tional  language,  that  makes  literature?  And 
by  an  inversion  of  Verissimo's  standard  may 
we  not  come  face  to  face  with  a  state  of 
affairs  in  which  different  literatures  exist 
within  the  same  tongue?  Indeed,  is  not 
such  a  conception  as  the  "great  American 
novel"  rendered  quite  futile  in  the  United 
States  by  the  fact  that  from  the  literary 
standpoint  we  are  several  countries  rather 
than  one? 

The  question  is  largely  academic.  At  the 
same  time  it  is  interesting  to  notice  the  more 
assertive  standpoint  lately  adopted  by  the 
charming  Mexican  poet,  Luis  G.  Urbina,  in 
his  recent  "La  Vida  Literaria  de  Mexico," 
where,  without  undue  national  pride  he 
claims  the  right  to  use  the  adjective  Mexican 
in  qualifying  the  letters  of  his  remarkable 
country.  Urbina  shows  that  different  physi 
ological  and  psychological  types  have  been 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  9 

produced  in  his  part  of  the  New  World ;  why, 
then,  should  the  changes  stop  there?  Nor 
have  they  ceased  at  that  point,  as  Senor  Ur- 
bina's  delightful  and  informative  book  re 
veals.  So,  too,  whatever  the  merits  of  the 
academic  question  involved,  a  book  like  Alen- 
car's  "Guarany,"  for  instance,  could  not  have 
been  written  outside  of  Brazil;  neither  could 
Verissimo's  own  "Scenes  from  Amazon  Life." 


II. 

Brazilian  literature  has  been  divided  into 
four  main  periods.  The  first  extends  from 
the  age  of  discovery  and  exploration  to  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century;  the  second 
includes  the  second  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century;  the  third  comprises  the  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century  up  to  1840,  while  that 
date  inaugurates  the  triumph  of  Romanti 
cism  over  pseudo-Classicism.  Romanticism, 
as  in  other  countries,  gave  way  in  turn  to 
realism  and  various  other  movements  cur 
rent  in  those  turbulent  decades.  Sometimes 
the  changes  came  not  as  a  natural  phase  of 
literary  evolution,  but  rather  as  the  conse 
quence  of  pure  imitation.  Thus,  Verissimo 
tells  us,  Symbolism,  in  Brazil,  was  a  matter 
of  intentional  parroting,  in  many  cases  unin- 


10  BRAZILIAN     TALES 

telligent.  It  did  not  correspond  to  a  move 
ment  of  reaction, — mystical,  sensualist,  in 
dividualist,  socialistic  or  anarchistic, — as  in 
Europe. 

Two  chief  impulses  were  early  present  in 
Brazilian  letters:  that  of  Portuguese  litera 
ture  and  that  of  the  Jesuit  colleges.  At 
the  time  of  the  discovery  of  Brazil  only 
Italy,  Spain,  Prance  and  Portugal  possessed 
a  literary  life.  Portugal,  indeed,  as  the 
Brazilian  critic  points  out,  was  then  in  its 
golden  period.  It  boasted  chroniclers  like 
Fernao  Lopes,  novelists  like  Bernardim  Ri- 
beiro,  historians  like  Joao  de  Barros,  and 
dramatists  of  the  stamp  of  Gil  Vicente.  The 
Jesuit  colleges,  too,  were  followed  by  other 
orders,  spreading  Latin  culture  and  main 
taining  communication  between  the  interior 
and  the  important  centers.  It  is  natural, 
then,  that  early  letters  in  Brazil  should  have 
been  Portuguese  not  only  in  language,  but  in 
inspiration  feeling  and  spirit.  Similarly, 
we  find  the  early  intellectual  dependence  of 
the  Spanish  American  countries  upon  Spain, 
even  as  later  both  the  Spanish  and  the  Portu 
guese  writers  of  America  were  to  be  in 
fluenced  greatly  by  French  literature. 
"Brazilian  poetry,"  says  Verissimo  in  the  lit 
tle  essay  already  referred  to,  "was  already  in 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  11 

the  seventeenth  century  superior  to  Portu 
guese  verse."  He  foresaw  a  time  when  it 
would  outdistance  the  mother  country.  But 
Brazilian  literature  as  a  whole,  he  found, 
lacked  the  perfect  continuity,  the  cohesion, 
the  unity  of  great  literatures,  chiefly  because 
it  began  as  Portuguese,  later  turned  to 
east  (particularly  France)  and  only  then  to 
Brazil  itself.  In  the  early  days  it  naturally 
lacked  the  solidarity  that  comes  from  easy 
communication  between  literary  centers. 
This  same  lack  of  communication  was  in  a 
sense  still  true  at  the  time  he  wrote  his  essay. 
The  element  of  communicability  did  exist 
during  the  Romantic  period  (1835-1860), 
whereupon  came  influences  from  France, 
England,  Italy,  and  even  Germany,  and  let 
ters  were  rapidly  denationalized.  What  was 
thus  needed  and  beneficial  from  the  stand 
point  of  national  culture  prejudiced  the  in 
terests  of  national  literature,  says  Verissimo. 
He  finds,  too,  that  there  is  too  little  original 
ity  and  culture  among  Brazilian  writers,  and 
that  their  work  lacks  sincerity  and  form 
(1899).  Poetry  was  too  often  reduced  to 
the  love  of  form  while  fiction  was  too  closely 
copied  from  the  French,  thus  operating  to 
stifle  the  development  of  a  national  dramatic 
literature.  Excessive  preoccupation  with 


12  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

politics  and  finance  (  where  have  we  heard 
that  complaint  elsewhere?)  still  further  im 
peded  the  rise  of  a  truly  native  literature. 

Perhaps  Verissimo's  outlook  was  too  pessi 
mistic;  he  was  an  earnest  spirit,  unafraid  to 
speak  his  mind  and  too  much  a  lover  of  truth 
to  be  misled  by  a  love  of  his  country  into 
making  exaggerated  claims  for  works  by  his 
countrymen.  We  must  not  forget  that  he 
was  here  looking  upon  Brazilian  letters  as  a 
whole;  in  other  essays  by  him  we  discover 
that  same  sober  spirit,  but  he  is  alive  to  the 
virtues  of  his  fellow  writers  as  well  as  to 
their  failings. 

It  is  with  the  prose  of  the  latest  period  in 
Brazilian  literature  that  we  are  here  con 
cerned.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  novel 
and  tale  Brazil  shares  with  Argentina, 
Columbia,  Chile  and  Mexico  the  leadership 
of  the  Latin-American*  republics.  If  Colum 
bia,  in  Jorge  Isaacs'  Maria,  can  show  the 
novel  best  known  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
and  Chile,  in  such  a  figure  as  Alberto  Blest- 
Gana  (author  of  Martin  Rivas  and  other 
novels)  boasts  a  "South  American  Balzac," 
Brazil  may  point  to  more  than  one  work  of 

*I  am  aware  of  the  recent  objection  to  this  term 
(See  my  Studies  in  Spanish  American  Literature,  pp. 
233-237),  but  no  entirely  satisfactory  substitute  has 
been  advanced. 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  13 

fiction  that  is  worthy  of  standing  beside 
Maria,  Martin  Rivas  or  Jose  Marmol's  exciting 
tale  of  love  and  adventure,  Amalia.  The 
growing  importance  of  Brazil  as  a  commer 
cial  nation,  together  with  a  corresponding  in 
crease  of  interest  in  the  study  of  Portuguese 
(a  language  easily  acquired  by  all  who  know 
Spanish)  will  have  the  desirable  effect  of 
making  known  to  the  English  reading  public 
a  selection  of  works  deserving  of  greater  re 
cognition. 

Just  to  mention  at  random  a  few  of  the 
books  that  should  in  the  near  future  be 
known  to  American  readers,  either  in  the 
original  or  through  the  medium  of  transla 
tions,  I  shall  recall  some  of  the  names  best 
known  to  Brazilians  in  connection  with  the 
modern  tale  and  novel.  If  there  be  anything 
lacking  in  the  array  of  modern  writers  it  is  a 
certain  broad  variety  of  subject  and  treat 
ment  to  which  other  literatures  have  ac 
customed  us. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  in  sur 
roundings  such  as  the  Amazon  affords  an 
"Indian"  school  of  literature  should  have 
arisen.  We  have  an  analogous  type  of  fic 
tion  in  United  States  literature,  old  and  new, 
produced  by  similar  causes.  Brazilian  "In- 
dianism"  reached  its  highest  point  perhaps 


14  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

in  Jose  Alencar's  famous  Guarany,  which  won 
for  its  author  national  reputation  and 
achieved  unprecedented  success.  Prom  the 
book  was  made  a  libretto  that  was  set  to 
music  by  the  Brazilian  composer,  Carlos  Go 
mez.  The  story  is  replete  with  an  intensity 
of  life  and  charming  descriptions  that  recall 
the  pages  of  Chateaubriand,  and  its  prose 
often  verges  upon  poetry  in  its  idealization 
of  the  Indian  race.  Of  the  author's  other 
numerous  works  Iracema  alone  approaches 
Guarany  in  popularity.  The  dominant  note 
of  the  author,  afterward  much  repeated  in 
the  literary  history  of  his  nation,  is  the  essen 
tial  goodness  and  self-abnegation  of  the  na 
tional  character. 

Alfred  d'Escragnolle  Taunay  (1843-1899) 
is  among  the  most  important  of  Brazil's 
novelists.  Born  at  Rio  de  Janeiro  of  noble 
family  he  went  through  a  course  in  letters 
and  science,  later  engaging  in  the  campaign 
of  Paraguay.  He  took  part  in  the  retreat  of 
La  Laguna,  an  event  which  he  has  enshrined 
in  one  of  his  best  works,  first  published  in 
French  under  the  title  La  Retraite  de  la  La 
guna.  He  served  also  as  secretary  to  Count 
d'Eu,  who  commanded  the  Brazilian  army, 
and  later  occupied  various  political  offices, 
rising  to  the  office  of  senator  in  1886.  His 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  15 

list  of  works  is  too  numerous  to  mention  in  a 
fragmentary  introduction  of  this  nature; 
chief  among  them  stands  Innocencia,  a  sister 
tale,  so  to  speak,  to  Isaacs's  Maria.  Accord 
ing  to  Verissimo,  Innocencia  is  one  of  the 
country's  few  genuinely  original  novels.  It 
has  been  called,  by  Merou  (1900),  "the  best 
novel  written  in  South  America  by  a  South 
American,"  a  compliment  later  paid  by  Gug- 
lielmo  Ferrero  to  Graga  Aranha's  Canaan. 
Viscount  Taunay's  famous  work  has  been 
translated  into  French  twice,  once  into  Eng 
lish,  Italian,  German,  Danish,  and  even  Ja 
panese. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  deserted  Matto 
Grosso,  a  favorite  background  of  the 
author's.  Innocencia  is  all  that  her  name 
implies,  and  dwells  secluded  with  her 
father,  who  is  a  miner,  her  negress 
slave  Conga,  and  her  Caliban-like  dwarf 
Tico,  who  loves  Innocencia,  the  Miran 
da  of  this  district.  Into  Innocencia's 
life  comes  the  itinerant  physician,  Cirino  de 
Campos,  who  is  called  by  her  father  to  cure 
her  of  the  fever.  Cirino  is  her  Ferdinand; 
they  make  love  in  secret,  for  she  is  meant  by 
paternal  arrangement  for  a  mere  brute  of  a 
mule  driver,  Menagao  by  name.  Innocencia 
vows  herself  to  Cirino,  when  the  mule-driver 


16  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

comes  to  enforce  his  prior  claim;  the  father, 
bound  by  his  word  of  honor,  sides  with  the 
primitive  lover.  The  tragedy  seems  foreor 
dained,  for  Innocencia  makes  spirited  resist 
ance,  while  Mane^ao  avenges  himself  by  kil 
ling  the  doctor.  A  comic  figure  of  a  Ger 
man  scientist  adds  humor  and  a  certain  poig 
nant  irony  to  the  tale.  Such  a  bare  outline 
conveys  nothing  of  the  mysterious  charm  of 
the  original,  nor  of  its  poetic  atmosphere. 
Comparing  Innocencia  with  what  has  been 
termed  its  sister  work,  Maria,  I  believe  that 
Maria  is  the  better  tale  of  the  two,  although 
there  is  much  to  be  said  for  both.  The  point 
need  not  be  pressed.  The  heroine  of  Maria 
is  more  a  woman,  less  a  child  than  Inno 
cencia,  hence  the  fate  of  the  Spanish  girl 
is  tragic  where  that  of  the  other  maiden  is 
merely  pitiful.  Innocencia^  on  the  other  hand, 
is  stouter  in  texture.  In  Maria  there  is  no 
love  struggle;  the  struggle  is  with  life  and 
circumstance;  in  Innocencia  there  is  not  only 
the  element  of  rivalry  in  love,  but  in  addition 
there  is  the  rigid  parent  who  sternly,  and  at 
last  murderously,  opposes  the  natural  desires 
of  a  child  whom  he  has  promised  to  another. 
Where  Maria  is  idyllic,  poetic,  flowing 
smoothing  along  the  current  of  a  realism 
tempered  by  sentimentalism,  Innocencia  (by 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  17 

no  means  devoid  of  poetry)  is  romantic, 
melodramatic,  rushing  along  turbulently  to 
the  outcome  in  a  death  as  violent  as  Maria's 
is  peaceful.  There  is  in  each  book  a  similar 
importance  of  the  background.  In  Innocencia 
the  "point  of  honor"  is  quite  as  strong  and 
vindictive  as  in  any  play  of  the  Spanish  Gol 
den  Age.  Maria  shares  with  Innocencia  re-^ 
lieving  touches  of  humor  and  excellent  pages 
of  character  description. 

Taunay's  O  Encilhamento  is  a  violent  anti 
thesis  to  the  work  just  considered.  Here  the 
politician  speaks.  In  passages  of  satire  that 
becomes  so  acrimonious  at  times  as  to  indi 
cate  real  personages,  the  wave  of  specula 
tion  that  swept  Argentina  and  Brazil  is  ana 
lyzed  and  held  up  to  scorn.  The  novel  is 
really  a  piece  of  historical  much-raking  and 
was  long  an  object  of  resentment  in  the  re 
public. 

Everything  from  Taunay's  pen  reveals  a 
close  communion  with  nature,  an  intimate 
understanding  of  the  psychology  of  the  vast 
region's  inhabitants.  His  shorter  tales, 
which  I  hope  later  to  present  to  the  English- 
reading  public,  reveal  these  powers  at  their 
best.  Now  it  is  a  soldier  who  goes  to  war, 
only,  like  a  military  Enoch  Arden,  to  return 
and  find  his  sweetheart  in  another's  arms; 


18  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

now  it  is  a  clergyman,  "the  vicar  of  sorrows," 
who,  in  the  luxuriant  environment  of  his 
charge  suffers  the  tortures  of  carnal  tempta 
tions,  with  the  spirit  at  last  triumphant  over 
the  flesh.  Whatever  of  artifice  there  is  in 
these  tales  is  overcome,  one  of  his  most  sym 
pathetic  critics  tells  us,  by  the  poetic  sin 
cerity  of  the  whole.  Taunay,  too,  has  been 
likened  to  Pierre  Loti  for  his  exotic  flavor. 
In  Yerece  a  Guana  we  have  a  miniature  Inno- 
cencia.  Yerce  and  Alberto  Monteiro  fall  in 
love  and  marry.  The  latter  has  been  cured, 
at  the  home  of  Yerece,  of  swamp  fever.  The 
inevitable,  however,  occurs,  and  Montero 
hears  the  call  of  civilization.  The  marriage, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  tribe  into 
which  Montero  has  wed,  is  dissolved  by  the 
man  alone.  He  returns  to  his  old  life  and 
she  dies  of  grief. 

A  work  that  may  stand  beside  Innocencia 
and  Verissimo's  Scenes  from  Amazon  Life  as  a 
successful  national  product  is  Inglez  de 
Sousa's  O  Missionario.  Antonio  de  Moraes, 
in  this  story,  is  not  so  strong  in  will  as  Tau- 
nay's  vicar  of  sorrows.  Antonio  is  a  mis 
sionary  "with  the  vocation  of  a  martyr  and 
the  soul  of  an  apostle,"  on  duty  in  the  tropics. 
The  voluptuous  magnetism  of  the  Amazon 
seizes  his  body.  Slowly,  agonizingly,  but 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  19 

surely  he  succumbs  to  the  enchantment, 
overpowered  by  the  life  around  him. 

Since  Machado  de  Assis(  who  should  pre 
cede  Azevedo)  and  Coelho  Netto  (who 
should  follow  him,  if  strict  chronological  or- 
dere  were  being  observed)  are  both  referred 
to  in  section  three,  which  deals  particularly 
with  the  authors  represented  in  this  sample 
assortment  of  short  tales,  they  are  here 
omitted. 

With  the  appearance  of  0  Mulato  by  Alui- 
zio  Azevedo  (1857-1912),  the  literature  of 
Brazil,  prepared  for  such  a  reorientation  by 
the  direct  influence  of  the  great  Portuguese, 
E^a  de  Queiroz,  and  Emile  Zola,  was  definite 
ly  steered  toward  naturalism.  "In  Aluizio 
Azevedo,"  says  Benedicto  Costa,  "one  finds 
neither  the  poetry  of  Jos£  de  Alencar,  nor  the 
delicacy, — I  should  even  say,  archness — of 
Macedo,  nor  the  sentimental  preciosity  of 
Taunay,  nor  the  subtle  irony  of  Machado  de 
Assis.  His  phrase  is  brittle,  lacking  lyricism, 
tenderness,  dreaminess,  but  it  is  dynamic, 
energetic,  expressive,  and,  at  times,  sensual 
to  the  point  of  sweet  delirium." 

O  Mulato,  though  it  was  the  work  of  a 
youth  in  his  early  twenties,  has  been  ac 
knowledged  as  a  solid,  well-constructed  ex 
ample  of  Brazilian  realism.  There  is  a  note 


20  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

of  humor,  as  well  as  a  lesson  in  criticism,  in 
the  author's  anecdote  (told  in  his  foreword  to 
the  fourth  edition)  about  the  provincial  edi 
tor  who  advised  the  youthful  author  to  give 
up  writing  and  hire  himself  out  on  a  farm. 
This  was  all  the  notice  he  received  from  his 
native  province,  Maranhao.  Yet  Azevedo 
grew  to  be  one  of  the  few  Brazilian  authors 
who  supported  himself  by  his  pen. 

When  Brazilian  letters  are  better  known 
in  this  nation,  among  Azevedo's  work  we 
should  be  quick  to  appreciate  such  a  pithy 
book  as  the  Livro  de  uma  Sogra, — the  Book  of 
a  Mother-in-Law.  And  when  the  literature 
of  these  United  States  is  at  last  (if  ever,  in 
deed!)  released  from  the  childish,  hypocriti 
cal,  Puritanic  inhibitions  forced  upon  it  by 
quasi  official  societies,  we  may  even  relish, 
from  among  Azevedo's  long  shelf  of  novels, 
such  a  sensuous  product  as  Cortigo. 

I  have  singled  out,  rather  arbitrarily  it 
must  be  admitted,  a  few  of  the  characteris 
tic  works  that  preceded  the  appearance  of 
Graga  Aranha's  Canaan,  the  novel  that  was 
lifted  into  prominence  by  Guglielmo  Perrero's 
fulsome  praise  of  it  as  the  "great  American 
novel."*  For  South  America,  no  less  than 

*Issued,  in  English  (1920)  by  the  publishers  of  this 
book. 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  21 

North,  is  hunting  that  literary  will  o'  the 
wisp.  Both  Maria  and  Innocencia  have  been 
mentioned  for  that  honor. 

There  is  a  distinct  basis  for  comparison 
beween  Innocencia  and  the  more  famous 
Spanish  American  tale  from  Colombia;  be 
tween  these  and  Canaan,  however,  there  is 
little  similarity,  if  one  overlook  the  poetic  at 
mosphere  that  glamours  all  three.  Aranha's 
masterpiece  is  of  far  broader  conception  than 
the  other  two;  it  adds  to  their  lyricism  an 
epic  sweep  inherent  in  the  subject  and  very 
soon  felt  in  the  treatment.  It  is,  in  fact,  a 
difficult  novel  to  classify,  impregnated  as  it 
is  with  a  noble  idealism,  yet  just  as  undoubt 
edly  streaked  with  a  powerful  realism.  This 
should,  however,  connote  no  inept  mingling 
of  genres ;  the  style  seems  to  be  called  for  by 
the  very  nature  of  the  vast  theme — that 
moment  at  which  the  native  and  the  immi 
grant  strain  begin  to  merge  in  the  land  of 
the  future — the  promised  land  that  the  pro 
tagonists  are  destined  never  to  enter,  even 
as  Moses  himself,  upon  Mount  Nebo  in  the 
land  of  Moab,  beheld  Canaan  and  died  in 
the  throes  of  the  great  vision. 

Canaan  is  of  those  novels  that  centre  about 
an  enthralling  idea.  The  type  which  devotes 
much  attention  to  depictions  of  life  and  cus- 


22  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

toms,  to  discussions  upon  present  realities 
and  ultimate  purposes,  is  perhaps  more  fre 
quent  among  Spanish  and  Portuguese  Ameri 
cans  than  among  our  own  readers  who  are 
apt  to  be  overinsistent  in  their  demands  for 
swift,  visible  action.  Yet,  in  the  hands  of  a 
master,  it  possesses  no  less  interest  than  the 
more  obvious  type  of  fiction,  for  ideas  pos 
sess  more  life  than  the  persons  who  are 
moved  by  them. 

The  idea  that  carries  Milkau  from  the  Old 
World  to  the  New  is  an  ideal  of  human  bro 
therhood,  high  purpose  and  dissatisfaction 
with  the  old,  degenerate  world.  In  the  State 
of  Espirito  Santo,  where  the  German  colon 
ists  are  dominant,  he  plans  a  simple  life  that 
shall  drink  inspiration  in  the  youth  of  a  new, 
virgin  continent.  He  falls  in  with  another 
German,  Lentz,  whose  outlook  upon  life  is  at 
first  the  very  opposite  to  Milkau's  blend  of 
Christianity  and  a  certain  liberal  socialism. 
The  strange  milieu  breeds  in  both  an  intellec 
tual  langour  that  vents  itself  in  long  discus 
sions,  in  breeding  contemplation,  mirages  of 
the  spirit.  Milkau  is  gradually  struck  with 
something  wrong  in  the  settlement.  Little 
by  little  it  begins  to  dawn  upon  him  that 
something  of  the  Old-World  hypocrisy,  fraud 
and  insincerity,  is  contaminating  this  sup- 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  23 

posedly  virgin  territory.  Here  he  discovers 
no  paradise  a  la  Rousseau — no  natural  man 
untainted  by  the  ills  of  civilization.  Graft 
is  as  rampant  as  in  any  district  of  the  world 
across  the  sea;  cruelty  is  as  rife.  His  pity  is 
aroused  by  the  plight  of  Mary,  a  destitute 
servant  who  is  betrayed  by  the  son  of  her 
employers.  Not  only  does  the  scamp  desert 
her  when  she  most  needs  his  protection  and 
acknowledgment,  but  he  is  silent  when  his 
equally  vicious  parents  drive  her  forth  to  a 
life  of  intense  hardship.  She  is  spurned  at 
every  door  and  reduced  to  beggary.  Her 
child  is  born  under  the  most  distressing  cir 
cumstances,  and  under  conditions  that 
strike  the  note  of  horror  the  infant  is  slain 
before  her  very  eyes  while  she  gazes  helpless 
ly  on. 

Mary  is  accused  of  infanticide,  and  since 
she  lacks  witnesses,  she  is  placed  in  a  very 
difficult  position.  Moreover,  the  father  of  her 
child  bends  every  effort  to  loosen  the 
harshest  measures  of  the  community  against 
her,  whereupon  Milkau,  whose  heart  is  open 
to  the  sufferings  of  the  universe,  has  an 
other  opportunity  to  behold  man's  in 
humanity  to  woman.  His  pity  turns  to  what 
pity  is  akin  to;  he  effects  her  release  from 
jail,  and  together  they  go  forth  upon  a  jour- 


24  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

ney  that  ends  in  the  delirium  of  death.  The 
promised  land  had  proved  a  mirage — at  least 
for  the  present.  And  it  is  upon  this  inde 
cisive  note  that  the  book  ends. 

Ferrero's  introduction,  though  short,  is 
substantial,  and  to  the  point.  It  is  natural 
that  he  should  have  taken  such  a  liking  to 
the  book,  for  Aranha's  work  is  of  intense  in 
terest  to  the  reader  who  looks  for  psychologi 
cal  power,  and  Perrero  himself  is  the  ex 
ponent  of  history  as  psychology  rather  than 
as  economic  materialism.  "The  critics,"  he 
says,  "will  judge  the  literary  merits  of  this 
novel.  As  a  literary  amateur  I  will  point  out 
among  its  qualities  the  beauty  of  its  style 
and  its  descriptions,  the  purity  of  the  psycho 
logical  analysis,  the  depth  of  the  thoughts 
and  the  reflections  of  which  the  novel  is  full, 
and  among  its  faults  a  certain  disproportion 
between  the  different  parts  of  the  book  and 
an  ending  which  is  too  vague,  indefinite  and 
unexpected.  But  its  literary  qualities  seem 
to  me  to  be  of  secondary  importance  to  the 
profound  and  incontrovertible  idea  that 
forms  the  kernel  of  the  book.  Here  in 
Europe  we  are  accustomed  to  say  that 
modern  civilization  develops  itself  in  America 
more  freely  than  in  Europe,  for  in  the  former 
country  it  has  not  to  surmount  the  obstacle 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  25 

of  an  older  society,  firmly  established,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  latter.  Because  of  this,  we 
call  America  'the  country  of  the  young,'  and 
we  consider  the  New  World  as  the  great 
force  which  decomposes  the  old  European 
social  organization."  That  idea  is,  as  Fer- 
rero  points  out,  an  illusion  due  to  distance. 
He  points  out,  too,  that  here  is  everywhere 
"an  old  America  struggling  against  a  new 
one  and,  this  is  very  curious,  the  new  Ameri 
ca,  which  upsets  traditions,  is  formed  above 
all  by  the  European  immigrants  who  seek  a 
place  for  themselves  in  the  country  of  their 
adoption,  whereas  the  real  Americans  repre 
sent  the  conservative  tendencies.  Europe 
exerts  on  American  society — through  its 
emigrants — the  same  dissolving  action  which 
America  exerts — through  its  novelties  and  its 
example — on  the  old  civilization  of  Europe." 
The  point  is  very  well  taken,  and  contains 
the  germ  of  a  great  novel  of  the  United 
States.  And  just  as  Canaan  stands  by  itself 
in  Brazilian  literature,  so  might  such  a  novel 
achieve  preeminence  in  our  own. 

Ferrero  is  quite  right  in  indicating  the 
great  non-literary  importance  of  the  novel, 
though  not  all  readers  will  agree  with  him  as 
to  the  excessive  vagueness  of  the  end.  Hard 
ly  any  other  type  of  ending  would  have  befit- 


26  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

ted  a  novel  that  treats  of  transition,  of  a 
landscape  that  dazzles  and  enthralls,  of  pos 
sibilities  that  founder,  not  through  the  ma- 
lignance  of  fate,  but  through  the  stupidity  of 
man.  There  is  an  epic  swirl  to  the  finale  that 
reminds  one  of  the  disappearance  of  an 
ancient  diety  in  a  pillar  of  dust.  For  an  un 
common  man  like  Milkau  an  uncommon  end 
was  called  for.  Numerous  questions  are 
touched  upon  in  the  course  of  the  leisurely 
narrative,  everywhere  opening  up  new  vis 
tas  of  thought;  for  Aranha  is  philosophically, 
critically  inclined;  his  training  is  cosmopoli 
tan,  as  his  life  has  been ;  he  knows  the  great 
Germans,  Scandinavians,  Belgians  and  Rus 
sians;  his  native  exuberance  has  been  tem 
pered  by  a  serenity  that  is  the  product  of 
European  influence.  He  is  some  fifty-two 
years  of  age,  has  served  his  nation  at  Chris- 
tiania  as  minister,  at  the  Hague,  and  as 
leader  in  the  Allied  cause.  He  is,  therefore, 
an  acknowledged  and  proven  spokesman. 
The  author  of  Canaan  has  done  other  things, 
among  which  this  book,  which  has  long  been 
known  in  French  and  Spanish,  stands  out  as 
a  document  that  marks  an  epoch  in  Brazilian 
history  as  well  as  a  stage  in  Brazilian  litera 
ture.  Whether  it  is  "the"  great  American, 
novel  is  of  interest  only  to  literary  politicians 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  27 

and  pigeon-holers;  it  is  "a"  great  novel, 
whether  of  America  or  Europe,  and  that  suf 
fices  for  the  lover  of  belles  lettres. 

III. 

In  considering  the  work  of  such  writers 
as  these  and  the  authors  represented  in  this 
little  pioneer  volume  one  should  bear  con 
tinually  in  mind  the  many  handicaps  under 
which  authorship  labors  in  Portuguese  and 
Spanish  America:  a  small  reading  public, 
lack  of  publishers,  widespread  prevalence  of 
illiteracy,  instability  of  politics.  Under  the 
circumstances  it  is  not  so  much  to  be  won 
dered  at  that  the  best  work  is  of  such  a  high 
average  as  that  it  was  done  at  all.  For  in 
nations  where  education  is  so  limited  and  il 
literacy  so  prevalent  the  manifold  functions 
which  in  more  highly  developed  nations  are 
performed  by  many  are  perforce  done  by  a 
few.  Hence  the  spectacle  in  the  new  Span 
ish  and  Portuguese  world,  as  in  the  old,  of 
men  and  women  who  are  at  once  journalists, 
novelists,  dramatists,  politicians,  soldiers, 
poets  and  what  not  else.  Such  a  versatility, 
often  joined  to  a  literary  prolixity,  no  doubt 
serves  to  lower  the  artistic  worth  of  works 
produced  under  such  conditions. 

In  connection  with  the  special  character 


28  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

of  the  tales  included  in  the  present  sample 
of  modem  Brazilian  short  stories, — particu 
larly  those  by  Machado  de  Assis  and  Medei- 
ros  e  Albuquerque — it  is  interesting  to  keep 
in  mind  the  popularity  of  Poe  and  Hawthorne 
in  South  America.  The  introspection  of 
these  men,  as  of  de  Maupassant  and  kindred 
spirits,  appeals  to  a  like  characteristic  of  the 
Brazilians.  Such  inner  seeking,  however, 
such  preoccupation  with  psychological  prob 
lems,  does  not  often,  in  these  writers,  reacln 
the  point  or  morbidity  which  we  have  be 
come  accustomed  to  expect  in  the  novels  and 
tales  of  the  Russians.  Stories  like  The  At 
tendant's  Confession  are  written  with  a  refine 
ment  of  thought  as  well  as  of  language. 
They  are  not,  as  so  much  of  Brazilian  litera 
ture  must  perforce  seem  to  the  stranger's 
mind,  exotic.  They  belong  to  the  letters  of 
the  world  by  virtue  of  the  human  appeal  of 
the  subject  and  the  mastery  of  their  treat 
ment. 

Chief  among  the  writers  here  represented 
stands  Joaquim  Maria  Machado  de  Assis. 
(1839-1908) .  Born  in  Rio  de  Janeiro  of  poor 
parents  he  was  early  beset  with  difficulties. 
He  soon  found  his  way  into  surroundings 
where  his  literary  tastes  were  awakened  and 
where  he  came  into  contact  with  some  of  the 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  29 

leading  spirits  of  the  day.  The  noted 
literary  historians  of  his  country,  Sylvio 
Romero  and  Joao  Ribeiro  (in  their  Compendia 
de  Historia  da  Litteratura  Brazileira)  find  the 
writing  of  his  first  period  of  little  value.  The 
next  decade,  from  his  thirtieth  to  his 
fourtieth  year,  is  called  transitional.  With 
the  year  1879,  however,  Machado  de  Assis 
began  a  long  phase  of  maturity  that  was  to 
last  for  thirty  years.  It  was  during  this 
fruitful  period  that  Memorias  Postumas  de  Braz 
Cubas,  Quincas  Borbas,  Historias  Sem  Data, 
Dom  Casmurro,  V arias  Historias  and  other 
notable  works  were  produced.  The  three 
tales  by  Machado  de  Assis  in  this  volume  are 
translated  from  his  V arias  Historias.  That 
same  bitter-sweet  philosophy  and  gracious, 
if  penetrating,  irony  which  inform  these  tales 
are  characteristic  of  his  larger  romances. 
Four  volumes  of  poetry  sustain  his  reputa 
tion  as  poet.  He  is  found,  by  Romero  and 
Ribeiro,  to  be  very  correct  and  somewhat 
cold  in  his  verse.  He  took  little  delight  in 
nature  and  lacked  the  passionate,  robust 
temperament  that  projects  itself  upon  pages 
of  ardent  beauty.  In  the  best  of  his  prose 
works,  however,  he  penetrates  as  deep  as 
any  of  his  countrymen  into  the  abyss  of  the 
human  soul, 


30  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

The  judgment  of  Verissimo  upon  Machado 
de  Assis  differs  somewhat  from  that  of  his 
distinguished  compatriots.  Both  because  of 
the  importance  of  Machado  de  Assis  to  Bra 
zilian  literature,  and  as  an  insight  into  Veris- 
simo's  delightful  critical  style,  I  translate 
somewhat  at  length  from  that  writer. 

"With  Varias  Historias"  he  says  in  his 
studies  of  Brazilian  letters,  "Sr.  Machado  de 
Assis  published  his  fifteenth  volume  and  his 
fifth  collection  of  tales  ...  To  say  that  in  our 
literature  Machado  de  Assis  is  a  figure  apart, 
that  he  stands  with  good  reason  first  among 
our  writers  of  fiction,  that  he  possesses  a 
rare  faculty  of  assimilation  and  evolution 
which  makes  him  a  writer  of  the  second 
Romantic  generation,  always  a  contem 
porary,  a  modern,  without  on  this  account 
having  sacrificed  anything  to  the  latest 
literary  fashion  or  copied  some  brand-new 
aesthetic,  above  all  conserving  his  own  dis 
tinct,  singular  personality  ...  is  but  to  repeat 
what  has  been  said  many  times  already.  All 
these  judgments  are  confirmed  by  his  latest 
book,  wherein  may  be  noted  the  same  im 
peccable  correctness  of  language,  the  same 
firm  grasp  upon  form,  the  same  abundancy, 
force  and  originality  of  thought  that  make 
of  him  the  only  thinker  among  our  writers  of 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  31 

fiction,  the  same  sad,  bitter  irony  .  .  . 

"After  this  there  was  published  another 
book  by  Sr.  Machado  de  Assis,  Yayd  Garcia. 
Although  this  is  really  a  new  edition,  we  may 
well  speak  of  it  here  since  the  first,  published 
long  before,  is  no  longer  remembered  by  the 
public.  Moreover,  this  book  has  the  delight 
ful  and  honest  charm  of  being  in  the  writer's 
first  manner. 

"But  let  us  understand  at  once,  this  refer 
ence  to  Machado  de  Assis's  first  manner.  In 
this  author  more  than  once  is  justified  the 
critical  concept  of  the  unity  of  works  dis 
played  by  the  great  writers.  All  of  Machado 
de  Assis  is  practically  present  in  his  early 
works ;  in  fact,  he  did  not  change,  he  scarcely 
developed.  He  is  the  most  individual,  the 
most  personal,  the  most  'himself  of  our 
writers;  all  the  germs  of  this  individuality 
that  was  to  attain  in  Bras  Cubas,  in  Quincas 
B orb as,  in  the  Papeis  Avulsos  and  in  V arias 
Historias  its  maximum  of  virtuosity,  may  be 
discovered  in  his  first  poems  and  in  his  ear 
liest  tales.  His  second  manner,  then,  of 
which  these  books  are  the  best  example,  is 
only  the  logical,  natural,  spontaneous  de 
velopment  of  his  first,  or  rather,  it  is  the  first 
manner  with  less  of  the  romantic  and  more 
of  the  critical  tendencies  . . .  The  distinguish- 


32  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

ing  trait  of  Machado  de  Assis  is  that  he  is, 
in  our  literature,  an  artist  and  a  philosopher. 
Up  to  a  short  time  ago  he  was  the  only  one 
answering  to  such  a  description.  Those  who 
come  after  him  proceed  consciously  and  un 
consciously  from  him,  some  of  them  being 
mere  worthless  imitators.  In  this  genre,  if  I 
am  not  misemploying  that  term,  he  remained 
without  a  peer.  Add  that  this  philosopher 
is  a  pessimist  by  temperament  and  by  con 
viction,  and  you  will  have  as  complete  a 
characterization  as  it  is  possible  to  design  of 
so  strong  and  complex  a  figure  as  his  in  two 
strokes  of  the  pen. 

"Yayd  Garcia,  like  Resurreiqao  and  Helena, 
is  a  romantic  account,  perhaps  the  most 
romantic  written  by  the  author.  Not  only 
the  most  romantic,  but  perhaps  the  most 
emotional.  In  the  books  that  followed  it  is 
easy  to  see  how  the  emotion  is,  one  might 
say,  systematically  repressed  by  the  sad 
irony  of  a  disillusioned  man's  realism." 
Verissimo  goes  on  to  imply  that  such  a  work 
as  this  merits  comparison  with  the  humane 
books  of  Tolstoi.  But  this  only  on  the  sur- 
fact.  "For  at  bottom,  it  contains  the 
author's  misanthropy.  A  social,  amiable 
misanthropy,  curious  about  everything,  in 
terested  in  everything, — what  is,  in  the  final 


PRELIMINARY     REMARKS  33 

ar  rlysis,  a  way  of  loving  mankind  without 
esteeming  it ... 

"The  excellency  with  which  the  author  of 
Yaya  Garcia  writes  our  language  is  proverbial 
.  .  .  The  highest  distinction  of  the  genius  of 
Machado  de  Assis  in  Brazilian  literature  is 
that  he  is  the  only  truly  universal  writer  we 
possess,  without  ceasing  on  that  account  to 
be  really  Brazilian." 

When  the  Brazilian  Academy  of  letters 
was  founded  in  1897,  Machado  de  Assis  was 
unanimously  elected  president  and  held  the 
position  until  his  death.  Oliveira  Lima,  who 
lectured  at  Harvard  during  the  college  sea 
son  of  1915-1916,  and  who  is  himself  one  of 
the  great  intellectual  forces  of  contemporary 
Brazil,  has  written  of  Machado  de  Assis: 
"By  his  extraordinary  talent  as  writer,  by 
his  profound  literary  dignity,  by  the  unity  of 
a  life  that  was  entirely  devoted  to  the  cult  of 
intellectual  beauty,  and  by  the  prestige  exert 
ed  about  him  by  his  work  and  by  his  per 
sonality,  Machado  de  Assis  succeeded,  de 
spite  a  nature  that  was  averse  to  acclaim  and 
little  inclined  to  public  appearance,  in  being 
considered  and  respected  as  the  first  among 
his  country's  men-of-letters :  the  head,  if  that 
word  can  denote  the  idea,  of  a  youthful 
literature  which  already  possesses  its  tradi- 


34  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

tions  and  cherishes  above  all  its  glories  .  .  . 
His  life  was  one  of  the  most  regulated  and 
peaceful  after  he  had  given  up  active  journal 
ism,  for  like  so  many  others,  he  began  his 
career  as  a  political  reporter,  paragrapher 
and  dramatic  critic." 

Coelho  Netto  (Anselmo  Ribas,  1864 ) 

is  known  to  his  countrymen  as  a  professor  of 
lierature  at  Rio  de  Janeiro.  His  career  has 
covered  the  fields  of  journalism,  politics,  edu 
cation  and  fiction.  Although  his  work  is  of 
uneven  worth,  no  doubt  because  of  his  un 
ceasing  productivity,  he  is  reckoned  by  so 
exacting  a  critic  as  Verissimo  as  one  of  Bra 
zil's  most  important  writers, — one  of  the  few, 
in  fact,  that  will  be  remembered  by  posterity. 
Among  his  best  liked  stories  are  ''Death," 
"The  Federal  Capital,"  "Paradise,"  "The 
Conquest,"  and  "Mirage."  Netto's  short 
stories  are  very  popular;  at  one  time  every 
other  youth  in  Brazil  was  imitating  his  every 
mannerism.  He  is  particularly  felicitous  in 
his  descriptions  of  tropical  nature,  which 
teem  with  glowing  life  and  vivid  picturesque- 
ness. 

Coelho  Netto  is  considered  one  of  the  chief 
writers  of  the  modern  epoch.  "He  is  really 
an  idealist,"  writes  Verissimo,  "but  an  ideal 
ist  who  has  drunk  deeply  of  the  strong,  dan- 


PRELIMINARY  REMARKS  35 

gerous  milk  of  French  naturalism."  He  sees 
nature  through  his  soul  rather  than  his  eyes, 
and  has  been  much  influenced  by  the  mys 
tics  of  Russia,  Germany  and  Scandinavia. 
His  style  is  derived  chiefly  from  the  Portu 
guese  group  of  which  E^a  de  Queiroz  is  the 
outstanding  figure,  and  his  language  has 
been  much  affected  by  this  attachment  to  the 
mother  country.  His  chief  stylistic  quality 
is  an  epic  note,  tempered  by  a  sentimental 
lyricism. 

In  his  book  Le  Roman  au  Bresil  (The  Novel 
in  Brazil,  which  I  believe  the  author  himself 
translated  from  the  original  Portuguese  into 
French)  Benedicto  Costa,  after  considering 
Aluizio  Azevedo  as  the  exponent  of  Brazilian 
naturalism  and  the  epicist  of  the  race's 
sexual  instincts,  turns  to  Coelho  Netto's 
neo-romanticism,  as  the  eternal  praise 
of  nature,  the  incessant,  exaggerated 
exaltation  of  the  landscape  ..."  In  Netto 
he  perceives  the  most  Brazilian,  the  least 
European  of  the  republic's  authors.  "One 
may  say  of  him  what  Taine  said  of  Balzac: 
'A  sort  of  literary  elephant,  capable  of  bear 
ing  prodigious  burdens,  but  heavy-footed.' 
And  in  fact  ...  he  reveals  a  great  resem 
blance  to  Balzac, — a  relative  Balzac,  for  the 


36  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

exclusive  use  of  a  people, — but  a  Balzac 
none  the  less." 

Despite  his  lack  of  ideas,  his  mixture  of 
archaisms,  nelogisms,  his  exuberance,  his 
slow  development  of  plots,  his  lack  of  pro 
portion  (noticeable,  naturally,  in  his  longer 
works  rather  than  in  his  short  fiction)  he 
stands  pre-eminent  as  a  patron  of  the  na 
tion's  intellectual  youth  and  as  the  romancer 
of  its  opulent  imagination. 

Medeiros  e  Albuquerque  (1867-  )  is 
considered  by  some  critics  to  be  the  leading 
exponent  in  the  country  of  "the  manner  of 
de  Maupassant,  enveloped  by  an  indefinable 
atmosphere  that  seems  to  bring  back  Edgar 
Allan  Poe."  He  has  been  director-general 
of  public  instruction  in  Rio  de  Janeiro,  pro 
fessor  at  the  Normal  School  and  the  National 
School  of  Fine  Arts,  and  also  a  deputy  from 
Pernambuco.  With  the  surprising  versatility 
of  so  many  South  Americans  he  has  achieved 
a  reputation  as  poet,  novelist,  dramatist,  pub 
licist,  journalist  and  philosopher. 

IV. 

The  part  that  women  have  played  in  the 
progress  of  the  South  American  republics  is 
as  interesting  as  it  is  little  known.  The  name 
of  the  world's  largest  river — the  Amazon,  or 


PRELIMINARY  REMARKS  37 

more  exactly  speaking,  the  Amazons — stands 
as  a  lasting  tribute  to  the  bravery  of  the  early 
women  whom  the  explorer  Orellana  encount- 
ed  during  his  conquest  of  the  mighty  flood.* 
For  he  named  the  river  in  honor  of  the  tribes' 
fighting  heroines.  Centuries  later,  when  one 
by  one  the  provinces  of  South  America  rose 
to  liberate  themselves  from  the  Spanish  yoke, 
the  women  again  played  a  noble  part  in  the 
various  revolutions.  The  statue  in  Colom 
bia  to  Policarpa  Salavarieta  is  but  a  symbol 
of  South  American  gratitude  to  a  host  of 
women  who  fought  side  by  side  with  their 
husbands  during  the  trying  days  of  the  early 
nineteenth  century.  One  of  them,  Manuela 
la  Tucumana,  was  even  made  an  officer  in 
the  Argentine  army. 

If  women,  however,  have  enshrined  them 
selves  in  the  patriotic  annals  of  the  Southern 
republics,  they  have  shown  that  they  are  no 
less  the  companions  of  man  in  the  more 
or  less  agreeable  arts  of  peace.  When  one 
considers  the  great  percentage  of  illiteracy 
that  still  prevails  in  Southern  America,  and 

*This  derivation  of  the  river's  name  is  by  many 
considered  fanciful.  A  more  likely  source  of  the 
designation  is  the  Indian  word  "Amassona,"  i.  e.,  boat- 
destroyer,  referring  to  the  tidal  phenomenon  known 
as  "bore"  or  "proroca,"  which  sometimes  uproots 
trees  and  sweeps  away  whole  tracts  of  land. 


38  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

the  inferior  intellectual  position  which  for 
years  has  been  the  lot  of  woman  particularly 
in  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese  nations,  it  is 
surprising  that  woman's  prominence  in  the 
literary  world  should  be  what  it  is. 

The  name  of  the  original  seventeenth  cen 
tury  spirit  known  as  Sor  Ines  de  la  Cruz 
(Mexico)  is  part  of  Spanish  literature.  Only 
recently  has  she  been  indicated  as  her  na 
tion's  first  folklorist  and  feminist!  Her 
poems  have  found  their  way  into  the  antho 
logies  of  universal  poesy.  The  most  dis 
tinguished  Spanish  poetess  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  Gertrudis  Gomez  de  Avellaneda, 
was  a  Cuban  by  birth,  going  later  to  Spain, 
where  she  was  readily  received  as  one  of  the 
nation's  leading  literary  lights.  Her  poetry 
is  remarkable  for  its  virile  passion ;  her  novel 
"Sab"  has  been  called  the  Spanish  "Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin"  for  its  stirring  protest  against 
slavery  and  its  idealization  of  the  oppressed 
race.  She  was  a  woman  of  striking  beauty, 
yet  so  vigorous  in  her  work  and  the  prosecu 
tion  of  it  that  one  facetious  critic  was  led  to 
exclaim,  "This  woman  is  a  good  deal  of  a 
man!" 

But  South  America  has  its  native  candi 
date  for  the  title  of  Spanish  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,"  and  this,  too,  is  the  work  of  a 


PRELIMINARY  REMARKS  39 

woman.  Clorinda  Matte's  "Aves  Sin  Nido" 
(Birds  Without  a  Nest)  is  by  one  of  Peru's 
most  talented  women,  and  exposes  the  dis 
graceful  exploitation  of  the  Indians  by  con 
scienceless  citizens  and  priests  who  had  sunk 
beneath  their  holy  calling.  It  seems,  indeed, 
that  fiction  as  a  whole  in  Peru  has  been  left 
to  the  pens  of  the  women.  Such  names  as 
Joana  Manuele  Girriti  de  Belzu,  Clorinda 
Matto  and  Mercedes  Cabello  de  Carbonero 
stand  for  what  is  best  in  the  South  American 
novel.  The  epoch  in  which  these  women 
wrote  (late  nineteenth  century)  and  the 
natural  feminine  tendency  to  put  the  house 
in  order  (whether  it  be  the  domestic  or  the 
national  variety)  led  to  such  stories  as  Car- 
bonero's  "Las  Consequencias,"  "El  Con- 
spirador"  and  "Blanca  Sol."  The  first  of 
these  is  an  indictment  of  the  Peruvian  vice 
of  gambling;  the  second  throws  an  interest 
ing  light  upon  the  origin  of  much  of  the  in 
ternal  strife  of  South  America,  and  portrays 
a  revolution  brought  on  by  the  personal  dis 
appointment  of  a  politician.  "Blanca  Sol" 
has  been  called  a  Peruvian  "Madame  Bo- 
vary." 

Although  Brazil  has  not  yet  produced  any 
Amazons  of  poetry  or  fiction  to  stand  beside 
such  names  as  Sor  Ines  de  la  Cruz  or  Ger- 


40  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

trudis  Gomez  de  Avallaneda,  it  has  con 
tributed  some  significant  names  to  the 
women  writers  of  Latin  America.  Not  least 
among  these  is  Carmen  Dolores  (Emilia  Mon- 
corvo  Bandeira  de  Mello)  who  was  born  in 
1852  at  Rio  de  Janeiro  and  died  in  1910,  after 
achieving  a  wide  reputation  in  the  field  of  the 
short  story,  novel  and  fueilleton.  In  addi 
tion  to  these  activities  she  made  herself  fa 
vorably  known  in  the  press  of  Rio,  Sao  Paulo 
and  Pernambuco.  Her  career  started  with 
the  novel  Confession.  Other  works  are  The 
Struggle,  A  Country  Drama,  and  Brazilian 
Legends.  The  story  in  this  volume  is  taken 
from  a  collection  entitled  The  Complex-  Soul. 

The  present  selection  of  tales  makes  no 
pretense  at  completeness,  finality  or  infalli 
bility  of  choice.  This  little  book  is,  so  to 
speak,  merely  a  modest  sample-case.  Some 
of  the  tales  first  appeared,  in  English,  in  the 
Boston  Evening  Transcript  and  the  Stratford 
Journal  (Boston),  to  which  organs  I  am  in 
debted  for  permission  to  reprint  them. 

ISAAC  GOLDBERG. 

Roxbury,  Mass. 


THE 
ATTENDANT'S    CONFESSION 


THE  ATTENDANT'S 
CONFESSION 

BY  JOAQUIM  MARIA  MACHADO  DE  Assis 
First  President  of  the  Brazilian  Academy  of  Letters 

SO  it  really  seems  to  you  that  what  hap 
pened  to  me  in  1860  is  worth  while 
writing  down?     Very  well.     I'll  tell  you 
the  story,  but  on  the  condition  that  you  do 
not  divulge  it  before  my  death.     You'll  not 
have  to  wait  long — a  week  at  most;  I  am  a 
marked  man. 

I  could  have  told  you  the  story  of  my 
whole  life,  which  holds  many  other  interest 
ing  details:  but  for  that  there  would  be 
needed  time,  courage  and  paper.  There  is 
plenty  of  paper,  indeed,  but  my  courage  is  at 
low  ebb,  and  as  to  the  time  that  is  yet  left 
me,  it  may  be  compared  to  the  life  of  a  can 
dle-flame.  Soon  tomorrow's  sun  will  rise — 
a  demon  sun  as  impenetrable  as  life  itself. 
So  goodbye,  my  dear  sir;  read  this  and  bear 
me  no  ill  will;  pardon  me  those  things  that 
will  appear  evil  to v  you  and  do  not  complain 
too  much  if  there  is  exhaled  a  disagreeable 
odor  which  is  not  exactly  that  of  the  rose. 
43 


44  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

You  asked  me  for  a  human  document.  Here 
it  is.  Ask  me  for  neither  the  empire  of  the 
Great  Mogul  nor  a  photograph  of  the  Mac 
cabees;  but  request,  if  you  will,  my  dead 
man's  shoes,  and  I'll  will  them  to  you  and  no 
other. 

You  already  know  that  this  took  place  in 
1860.  The  year  before,  about  the  month  of 
August,  at  the  age  of  forty-two,  I  had  be 
come  a  theologian — that  is,  I  copied  the  theo 
logical  studies  of  a  priest  at  Nictheroy,  an 
old  college-chum,  who  thus  tactfully  gave  me 
my  board  and  lodging.  In  that  same  month 
of  August,  1859,  he  received  a  letter  from  the 
vicar  of  a  small  town  in  the  interior,  asking 
if  he  knew  of  an  intelligent,  discreet  and  pa 
tient  person  who  would  be  willing,  in  return 
for  generous  wages,  to  serve  as  attendant  to 
the  invalid  Colonel  Felisbert.  The  priest  pro 
posed  that  I  take  the  place,  and  I  accepted  it 
eagerly,  for  I  was  tired  of  copying  Latin 
quotations  and  ecclesiastic  formulas.  First  I 
went  to  Rio  de  Janeiro  to  take  leave  of  a 
brother  who  lived  at  the  capital,  and  from 
there  I  departed  for  the  little  village  of  the 
interior. 

When  I  arrived  there  I  heard  bad  news 
concerning  the  colonel.  He  was  pictured  to 
me  as  a  disagreeable,  harsh,  exacting  fellow; 


THE  ATTENDANT'S  CONFESSION    45 

nobody  could  endure  him,  not  even  his  own 
friends.  He  had  used  more  attendants  than 
medicines.  In  fact  he  had  broken  the  faces 
of  two  of  them.  But  to  all  this  I  replied  that 
I  had  no  fear  of  persons  in  good  health,  still 
less  of  invalids.  So,  after  first  visiting  the 
vicar,  who  confirmed  all  that  I  had  heard  and 
recommended  to  me  charity  and  forbearance, 
I  turned  toward  the  colonel's  residence. 

I  found  him  on  the  veranda  of  his  house, 
stretched  out  on  a  chair  and  suffering  great 
ly.  He  received  me  fairly  well.  At  first  he 
examined  me  silently,  piercing  me  with  his 
two  feline  eyes;  then  a  kind  of  malicious 
smile  spread  over  his  features,  which  were 
rather  hard.  Finally  he  declared  to  me  that 
all  the  attendants  he  had  ever  engaged  in 
his  service  hadn't  been  worth  a  button,  that 
they  slept  too  much,  were  impudent  and 
spent  their  time  courting  the  servants;  two 
of  them  were  even  thieves. 

"And  you,  are  you  a  thief?" 

"No,  sir." 

Then  he  asked  me  my  name.  Scarcely 
had  I  uttered  it  when  he  made  a  gesture  of 
astonishment. 

"Your  name  is  Colombo?" 

"No,  sir.  My  name  is  Procopio  Jose" 
Gomes  Vallongo." 


46  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

Vallongo? — He  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  this  was  no  Christian  name  and  pro 
posed  thenceforth  to  call  me  simply  Procopio. 
I  replied  that  it  should  be  just  as  he  pleased. 

If  I  recall  this  incident,  it  is  not  only  be 
cause  it  seems  to  me  to  give  a  good  picture 
of  the  colonel,  but  also  to  show  you  that  my 
reply  made  a  very  good  impression  upon  him. 
The  next  day  he  told  the  vicar  so,  adding 
that  he  had  never  had  a  more  sympathetic 
attendant.  The  fact  is,  we  lived  a  regular 
honeymoon  that  lasted  one  week. 

Prom  the  dawn  of  the  eighth  day  I  knew 
the  life  of  my  predecessors — a  dog's  life.  I 
no  longer  slept.  I  no  longer  thought  of  any 
thing,  I  was  showered  with  insults  and 
laughed  at  them  from  time  to  time  with  an 
air  of  resignation  and  submission,  for  I  had 
discovered  that  this  was  a  way  of  pleasing 
him.  His  impertinences  proceeded  as  much 
from  his  malady  as  from  his  temperament. 
His  illness  was  of  the  most  complicated:  he 
suffered  from  aneurism,  rheumatism  and 
three  or  four  minor  affections.  He  was 
nearly  sixty,  and  since  he  had  been  five  years 
old  had  been  accustomed  to  having  every 
body  at  his  beck  and  call.  That  he  was 
surly  one  could  well  forgive ;  but  he  was  also 
very  malicious.  He  took  pleasure  in  the 


THE  ATTENDANT'S   CONFESSION    47 

grief  and  the  humiliation  of  others.  At  the 
end  of  three  months  I  was  tired  of  putting  up 
with  him  and  had  resolved  to  leave;  only  the 
opportunity  was  lacking. 

But  that  came  soon  enough.  One  day, 
when  I  was  a  bit  late  in  giving  him  a  mas 
sage,  he  took  his  cane  and  struck  me  with 
it  two  or  three  times.  That  was  the  last 
straw.  I  told  him  on  the  spot  that  I  was 
through  with  him  and  I  went  to  pack  my 
trunk.  He  came  later  to  my  room;  he  begged 
me  to  remain,  assured  me  that  there  wasn't 
anything  to  be  angry  at,  that  I  must  excuse 
the  ill-humoredness  of  old  age.  .  .  He  insisted 
so  much  that  I  agreed  to  stay. 

"I  am  nearing  the  end,  Procopio,"  he  said 
to  me  that  evening.  "I  can't  live  much 
longer.  I  am  upon  the  verge  of  the  grave. 
You  will  go  to  my  burial,  Procopio.  Under 
no  circumstances  will  I  excuse  you.  You 
shall  go,  you  shall  pray  over  my  tomb.  And 
if  you  don't,"  he  added,  laughing,  "my  ghost 
will  come  at  night  and  pull  you  by  the  legs. 
Do  you  believe  in  souls  of  the  other  world, 
Procopio?" 

"Nonsense!" 

"And  why  don't  you,  you  blockhead?"  he 
replied  passionately,  with  distended  eyes. 

That  is  how  he  was  in  his  peaceful  inter- 


48  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

vals;  what  he  was  during  his  attacks  of 
anger,  you  may  well  imagine! 

He  hit  me  no  more  with  his  cane,  but  his 
insults  were  the  same,  if  not  worse.  With 
time  I  became  hardened,  I  no  longer  heeded 
anything;  I  was  an  ignoramus,  a  camel,  a 
bumpkin,  an  idiot,  a  loggerhead — I  was 
everything!  It  must  further  be  understood 
that  I  alone  was  favored  with  these  pretty 
names.  He  had  no  relatives;  there  had  been 
a  nephew,  but  he  had  died  of  consumption. 
As  to  friends,  those  who  came  now  and  then 
to  flatter  him  and  indulge  his  whims  made 
him  but  a  short  visit,  five  or  ten  minutes  at 
the  most.  I  alone  was  always  present  to 
receive  his  dictionary  of  insults.  More  than 
once  I  resolved  to  leave  him ;  but  as  the  vicar 
would  exhort  me  not  to  abandon  the  colonel 
I  always  yielded  in  the  end. 

Not  only  were  our  relations  becoming  very 
much  strained,  but  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  get 
back  to  Rio  de  Janeiro.  At  forty-two  years 
of  age  one  does  not  easily  accustom  him 
self  to  perpetual  seclusion  with  a  brutal, 
snarling  old  invalid,  in  the  depths  of  a  remote 
village.  Just  to  give  you  an  idea  of  my  iso 
lation,  let  it  suffice  to  inform  you  that  I  didn't 
even  read  the  newspapers;  outside  of  some 
more  or  less  important  piece  of  news  that 


THE  ATTENDANT'S   CONFESSION    49 

was  brought  to  the  colonel,  I  knew  nothing 
of  what  was  doing  in  the  world.  I  therefore 
yearned  to  get  back  to  Rio  at  the  first  oppor 
tunity,  even  at  the  cost  of  breaking  with  the 
vicar.  And  I  may  as  well  add — since  I  am 
here  making  a  general  confession — that 
having  spent  nothing  of  my  wages,  I  was 
itching  to  dissipate  them  at  the  capital. 

Very  probably  my  chance  was  approach 
ing.  The  colonel  was  rapidly  getting  worse. 
He  made  his  will,  the  notary  receiving  almost 
as  many  insults  as  did  I.  The  invalid's  treat 
ment  became  more  strict;  short  intervals  of 
peace  and  rest  became  rarer  than  ever  for 
me.  Already  I  had  lost  the  meagre  measure 
of  pity  that  made  me  forget  the  old  invalid's 
excesses ;  within  me  there  seethed  a  cauldron 
of  aversion  and  hatred.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  month  of  August  I  decided  definitely  to 
leave.  The  vicar  and  the  doctor,  finally  ac 
cepting  my  explanations,  asked  me  but  a  few 
days'  more  service.  I  gave  them  a  month. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  I  would  depart,  what 
ever  might  be  the  condition  of  the  invalid. 
The  vicar  promised  to  find  a  substitute  for 
me. 

You'll  see  now  what  happened.  On  the 
evening  of  the  24th  of  August  the  colonel 
had  a  violent  attack  of  anger;  he  struck  me, 


50  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

he  called  me  the  vilest  names,  he  threatened 
to  shoot  me;  finally  he  threw  in  my  face  a 
plate  of  porridge  that  was  too  cold  for  him. 
The  plate  struck  the  wall  and  broke  into  a 
thousand  fragments. 

"You'll  pay  me  for  it,  you  thief!"  he  bel 
lowed. 

For  a  long  time  he  grumbled.  Towards 
eleven  o'clock  he  gradually  fell  asleep.  While 
he  slept  I  took  a  book  out  of  my  pocket,  a 
translation  of  an  old  d'Arlincourt  romance 
which  I  had  found  lying  about,  and  began  to 
read  it  in  his  room,  at  a  small  distance  from 
his  bed.  I  was  to  wake  him  at  midnight  to 
give  him  his  medicine;  but,  whether  it  was 
due  to  fatigue  or  to  the  influence  of  the  book, 
I,  too,  before  reaching  the  second  page,  fell 
asleep.  The  cries  of  the  colonel  awoke  me 
with  a  start;  in  an  instant  I  was  up.  He, 
apparently  in  a  delirium,  continued  to  utter 
the  same  cries;  finally  he  seized  his  water- 
bottle  and  threw  it  at  my  face.  I  could  not 
get  out  of  the  way  in  time ;  the  bottle  hit  me 
in  the  left  cheek,  and  the  pain  was  so  acute 
that  I  almost  lost  consciousness.  With  a 
leap  I  rushed  upon  the  invalid;  I  tightened 
my  hands  around  his  neck;  he  struggled 
several  moments;  I  strangled  him. 

When  I  beheld  that  he  no  longer  breathed, 


THE  ATTENDANT'S   CONFESSION    51 

I  stepped  back  in  terror.  I  cried  out;  but  no 
body  heard  me.  Then,  approaching  the  bed 
once  more,  I  shook  him  so  as  to  bring  him 
back  to  life.  It  was  too  late;  the  aneurism 
had  burst,  and  the  colonel  was  dead.  I  went 
into  the  adjoining  room,  and  for  two  hours  I 
did  not  dare  to  return.  It  is  impossible  for 
me  to  express  all  that  I  felt  during  that  time. 
It  was  intense  stupefaction,  a  kind  of  vague 
and  vacant  delirium.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  saw  faces  grinning  on  the  walls;  I  heard 
muffled  voices.  The  cries  of  the  victim,  the 
cries  uttered  before  the  struggle  and  during 
its  wild  moments  continued  to  reverberate 
within  me,  and  the  air,  in  whatever  direction 
I  turned,  seemed  to  shake  with  convulsions. 
Do  not  imagine  that  I  am  inventing  pictures 
or  aiming  at  verbal  style.  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  heard  distinctly  voices  that  were  crying 
at  me:  "Murderer;  Murderer!" 

All  was  quiet  in  the  house.  The  tick-tick 
of  the  clock,  very  even,  slow,  dryly  metrical, 
increased  the  silence  and  solitude.  I  put  my 
ear  to  the  door  of  the  room,  in  hope  of  hear 
ing  a  groan,  a  word,  an  insult,  anything  that 
would  be  a  sign  of  life,  that  might  bring  back 
peace  to  my  conscience;  I  was  ready  to  let 
myself  be  struck  ten,  twenty,  a  hundred 
times,  by  the  colonel's  hand.  But,  nothing — 


52  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

all  was  silent.  I  began  to  pace  the  room  aim 
lessly;  I  sat  down,  I  brought  my  hands  des 
pairingly  to  my  head ;  I  repented  ever  having 
come  to  the  place. 

"Cursed  be  the  hour  in  which  I  ever  ac 
cepted  such  a  position,"  I  cried.  And  I  flamed 
with  resentment  against  the  priest  of  Nich- 
teroy,  against  the  doctor,  the  vicar — against 
all  those  who  had  procured  the  place  for  me 
and  forced  me  to  remain  there  so  long.  They, 
too,  I  convinced  myself,  were  accomplices  in 
my  crime. 

As  the  silence  finally  terrified  me,  I  opened 
a  window,  in  the  hope  of  hearing  at  least  the 
murmuring  of  the  wind.  But  no  wind  was 
blowing.  The  night  was  peaceful.  The 
stars  were  sparkling  with  the  indifference  of 
those  who  remove  their  hats  before  a  passing 
funeral  procession  and  continue  to  speak  of 
other  things.  I  remained  at  the  window  for 
some  time,  my  elbows  on  the  sill,  my  gaze 
seeking  to  penetrate  the  night,  forcing  myself 
to  make  a  mental  summary  of  my  life  so  that 
I  might  escape  the  present  agony.  I  believe 
it  was  only  then  that  I  thought  clearly  about 
the  penalty  of  my  crime.  I  saw  myself  al 
ready  being  accused  and  threatened  with  dire 
punishment.  Prom  this  moment  fear  com- 


THE  ATTENDANT'S  CONFESSION    53 

plicated  my  feeling  of  remorse.  I  felt  my 
hair  stand  on  end.  A  few  minutes  later  I 
saw  three  or  four  human  shapes  spying  at 
me  from  the  terrace,  where  they  seemed  to 
be  waiting  in  ambush;  I  withdrew;  the  shapes 
vanished  into  the  air;  it  had  been  an  hallu 
cination. 

Before  daybreak  I  bandaged  the  wounds 
that  I  had  received  in  the  face.  Then  only 
did  I  pluck  up  enough  courage  to  return  to 
the  other  room.  Twice  I  started,  only  to 
turn  back;  but  it  must  be  done,  so  I  entered. 
Even  then,  I  did  not  at  first  go  to  the  bed.  My 
legs  shook,  my  heart  pounded.  I  thought  of 
flight;  but  that  would  have  been  a  confession 
of  the  crime.  ...  It  was  on  the  contrary  very 
important  for  me  to  hide  all  traces  of  it.  I 
approached  the  bed.  I  looked  at  the  corpse, 
with  its  widely  distended  eyes  and  its  mouth 
gaping,  as  if  uttering  the  eternal  reproach  of 
the  centuries:  "Cain,  what  hast  thou  done 
with  thy  brother?"  I  discovered  on  the  neck 
the  marks  of  my  nails;  I  buttoned  the  shirt 
to  the  top,  and  threw  the  bed-cover  up  to  the 
dead  man's  chin.  Then  I  called  a  servant 
and  told  him  that  the  colonel  had  died  to 
wards  morning;  I  sent  him  to  notify  the  vicar 
and  the  doctor. 

The  first  idea  that  came  to  me  was  to 


54  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

leave  as  soon  as  possible  under  the  pretext 
that  my  brother  was  ill ;  and  in  reality  I  had 
received,  several  days  before,  from  Rio,  a 
letter  telling  me  that  he  was  not  at  all  well. 
But  I  considered  that  my  immediate  depar 
ture  might  arouse  suspicion,  and  I  decided  to 
wait.  I  laid  out  the  corpse  myself,  with  the 
assistance  of  an  old,  near-sighted  negro.  I 
remained  continually  in  the  room  of  the  dead. 
I  trembled  lest  something  out  of  the  way 
should  be  discovered.  I  wanted  to  assure 
myself  that  no  mistrust  could  be  read  upon 
the  faces  of  the  others;  but  I  did  not  dare  to 
look  any  person  in  the  eye.  Everything 
made  me  impatient;  the  going  and  coming  of 
those  who,  on  tip-toe  crossed  the  room ;  their 
whisperings ;  the  ceremonies  and  the  prayers 
of  the  vicar.  .  .  .  The  hour  having  come,  I 
closed  the  coffin,  but  with  trembling  hands, 
so  trembling  that  somebody  noticed  it  and 
commented  upon  it  aloud,  with  pity. 

"Poor  Procopio!  Despite  what  he  has  suf 
fered  from  his  master,  he  is  strongly  moved." 

It  sounded  like  irony  to  me.  I  was  anxious 
to  have  it  all  over  with.  We  went  out.  Once 
in  the  street  the  passing  from  semi-obscurity 
to  daylight  dazed  me  and  I  staggered.  I  be 
gan  to  fear  that  it  would  no  longer  be  pos 
sible  for  me  to  conceal  the  crime.  I  kept  my 


THE  ATTENDANT'S  CONFESSION    55 

eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  the  ground  and  took 
my  place  in  the  procession.  When  all  was 
over,  I  breathed  once  more.  I  was  at  peace 
with  man.  But  I  was  not  at  peace  with  my 
conscience,  and  the  first  nights,  naturally,  I 
spent  in  restlessness  and  affliction.  Need  I 
tell  you  that  I  hastened  to  return  to  Rio  de 
Janeiro,  and  that  I  dwelt  there  in  terror  and 
suspense,  although  far  removed  from  the 
scene  of  the  crime?  I  never  smiled;  I 
scarcely  spoke;  I  ate  very  little;  I  suffered 
hallucinations  and  nightmares.  .  .  . 

"Let  the  dead  rest  in  peace,"  they  would 
say  to  me.  "It  is  out  of  all  reason  to  show 
so  much  melancholy." 

And  I  was  happy  to  find  how  people  inter 
preted  my  symptoms,  and  praised  the  dead 
man  highly,  calling  him  a  good  soul,  surly,  in 
truth,  but  with  a  heart  of  gold.  And  as  I 
spoke  in  such  wise,  I  convinced  myself,  at 
least  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time.  Another 
interesting  phenomenon  was  taking  place 
within  me — I  tell  it  to  you  because  you  will 
perhaps  make  some  useful  deduction  from 
it — and  that  was,  although  I  had  very  little 
religion  in  me,  I  had  a  mass  sung  for  the 
eternal  rest  of  the  colonel  at  the  Church  of 
the  Blessed  Sacrament.  I  sent  out  no  invi 
tations  to  it,  I  did  not  whisper  a  word  of  it 


56  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

to  anybody;  I  went  there  alone.  I  knelt 
during  the  whole  service  and  made  many 
signs  of  the  cross.  I  paid  the  priest  double 
and  distributed  alms  at  the  door,  all  in  the 
name  of  the  deceased. 

I  wished  to  deceive  nobody.  The  proof  of 
this  lies  in  the  fact  that  I  did  all  this  without 
letting  any  other  know.  To  complete  this 
incident,  I  may  add  that  I  never  mentioned 
the  colonel  without  repeating,  "May  his  soul 
rest  in  peace!"  And  I  told  several  funny 
anecdotes  about  him,  some  amusing  caprices 
of  his  ... 

About  a  week  after  my  arrival  at  Rio  I  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  the  vicar.  He  announced 
that  the  will  of  the  colonel  had  been  opened 
and  that  I  was  there  designated  as  his  sole 
heir.  Imagine  my  stupefaction!  I  was  sure 
that  I  had  read  wrongly;  I  showed  it  to  my 
brother,  to  friends;  they  all  read  the  same 
thing.  It  was  there  in  black  and  white,  I  was 
really  the  sole  heir  of  the  colonel.  Then  I 
suddenly  thought  that  this  was  a  trap  to 
catch  me,  but  then  I  considered  that  there 
were  other  ways  of  arresting  me,  if  the  crime 
had  been  discovered.  Moreover,  I  knew  the 
vicar's  honesty,  and  I  was  sure  that  he 
would  not  be  a  party  to  such  a  plan.  I  re 
read  the  letter  five  times,  ten  times,  a  hun- 


THE  ATTENDANT'S  CONFESSION    57 

dred  times;  it  was  true.  I  was  the  colonel's 
sole  heir! 

"How  much  was  he  worth?"  my  brother 
asked  me. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  know  that  he  was  very 
wealthy." 

"Really,  he's  shown  that  he  was  a  very 
true  friend  to  you." 

"He  certainly  was — he  was.  ..." 

Thus,  by  a  strange  irony  of  fate,  all  the 
colonel's  wealth  came  into  my  hands.  At 
first  I  thought  of  refusing  the  legacy.  It 
seemed  odious  to  take  a  sou  of  that  inherit 
ance;  it  seemed  worse  than  the  reward  of  a 
hired  assassin.  For  three  days  this  thought 
obsessed  me;  but  more  and  more  I  was 
thrust  against  this  consideration:  that  my  re 
fusal  would  not  fail  to  awake  suspicion. 
Finally  I  settled  upon  a  compromise ;  I  would 
accept  the  inheritance  and  would  distribute 
it  in  small  sums,  secretly. 

This  was  not  merely  scruple  on  my  part,  it 
was  also  the  desire  to  redeem  my  crime  by 
virtuous  deeds;  and  it  seemed  the  only  way 
to  recover  my  peace  of  mind  and  feel  that 
accounts  were  straight. 

I  made  hurried  preparations  and  left.  As 
I  neared  the  little  village  the  sad  event  re 
turned  obstinately  to  my  memory.  Every 


58  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

thing  about  the  place,  as  I  looked  at  it  once 
again,  suggested  tragic  deeds.  At  3very  turn 
in  the  road  I  seemed  to  see  the  ghost  of  the 
colonel  loom.  And  despite  myself,  I  evoked 
in  my  imagination  his  cries,  his  struggles, 
his  looks  on  that  horrible  night  of  the 
crime.  .  .  . 

Crime  or  struggle?  Really,  it  was  rather 
a  struggle;  I  had  been  attacked,  I  had  de 
fended  myself;  and  in  self-defence.  ...  It  had 
been  an  unfortunate  struggle,  a  genuine  tra 
gedy.  This  idea  gripped  me.  And  I  reviewed 
all  the  abuse  he  had  heaped  upon  me;  I 
counted  the  blows,  the  names  ...  It  was  not 
the  colonel's  fault,  that  I  knew  well;  it  was 
his  affliction  that  made  him  so  peevish  and 
even  wicked.  But  I  pardoned  all,  every 
thing!  .  . .  The  worst  of  it  was  the  end  of  that 
fatal  night  ...  I  also  considered  that  in  any 
case  the  colonel  had  not  long  to  live.  His  days 
were  numbered;  did  not  he  himself  feel  that? 
Didn't  he  say  every  now  and  then,  "How 
much  longer  have  I  to  live?  Two  weeks,  or 
one,  perhaps  less?" 

This  was  not  life,  it  was  slow  agony,  if  one 
may  so  name  the  continual  martyrdom  of 
that  poor  man.  .  .  .  And  who  knows,  who  can 
say  that  the  struggle  and  his  death  were  not 
simply  a  coincidence?  That  was  after  all 


THE  ATTENDANT'S  CONFESSION    59 

quite  possible,  it  was  even  most  probable; 
careful  weighing  of  the  matter  showed  that 
it  couldn't  have  been  otherwise.  At  length 
this  idea,  too,  engraved  itself  upon  my 
mind.  .  .  . 

Something  tugged  at  my  heart  as  I  entered 
the  village;  I  wanted  to  run  back;  but  I 
dominated  my  emotions  and  I  pressed  for 
ward.  I  was  received  with  a  shower  of  con 
gratulations.  The  vicar  communicated  to 
me  the  particulars  of  the  will,  enumerated 
the  pious  gifts,  and,  as  he  spoke,  praised  the 
Christian  forbearance  and  the  faithfulness 
which  I  had  shown  in  my  care  of  the  de 
ceased,  who,  despite  his  temper  and  brutality, 
had  so  well  demonstrated  his  gratitude. 

"Certainly,"  I  said,  looking  nervously 
around. 

I  was  astounded.  Everybody  praised  my 
conduct.  Such  patience,  such  devotion.  The 
first  formalities  of  the  inventory  detained  me 
for  a  while;  I  chose  a  solicitor;  things  fol 
lowed  their  course  in  regular  fashion.  Dur 
ing  this  time  there  was  much  talk  of  the 
colonel.  People  came  and  told  me  tales 
about  him,  but  without  observing  the  priest's 
moderation.  I  defended  the  memory  of  the 
colonel.  I  recalled  his  good  qualities,  his 
virtues;  had  he  not  been  austere?  .  .  . 


60  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

"Austere!"  they  would  interrupt.  "Non 
sense!  He  is  dead,  and  it's  all  over  now. 
But  he  was  a  regular  demon!" 

And  they  would  cite  incidents  and  relate 
the  colonel's  perversities,  some  of  which 
were  nothing  less  than  extraordinary. 

Need  I  confess  it?  At  first  I  listened  to 
all  this  talk  with  great  curiosity;  then,  a 
queer  pleasure  pentrated  my  heart,  a  pleas 
ure  from  which,  sincerely,  I  tried  to  escape. 
And  I  continued  to  defend  the  colonel;  I  ex 
plained  him,  I  attributed  much  of  the  fault 
finding  to  local  animosity;  I  admitted,  yes, 
I  admitted  that  he  had  been  a  trifle  exacting, 
somewhat  violent.  .  .  . 

"Somewhat!  Why  he  was  as  furious  as  a 
snake!"  exclaimed  the  barber. 

And  all — the  collector,  the  apothecary,  the 
clerk — all  were  of  the  same  opinion.  And 
they  would  start  to  relate  other  anecdotes. 
They  reviewed  the  entire  life  of  the  deceased. 
The  old  folks  took  particular  delight  in  re 
calling  the  cruelties  of  his  youth.  And  that 
queer  pleasure,  intimate,  mute,  insidious, 
grew  within  me — a  sort  of  moral  tape-worm 
whose  coils  I  tore  out  in  vain,  for  they  would 
immediately  form  again  and  take  firmer  hold 
than  ever. 

The  formalities  of  the  inventory  afforded 


THE  ATTENDANT'S  CONFESSION    61 

me  a  little  relief;  moreover,  public  opinion 
was  so  unanimously  unfavorable  to  the  col 
onel  that  little  by  little  the  place  lost  the 
lugubrious  aspect  that  had  at  first  struck  me. 
At  last  I  entered  into  possession  of  the 
legacy,  which  I  converted  into  land-titles  and 
cash. 

Several  months  had  elapsed,  and  the  idea 
of  distributing  the  inheritance  in  charity  and 
pious  donations  was  by  no  means  so  strong 
as  it  had  at  first  been;  it  even  seemed  to  me 
that  this  would  be  sheer  affectation.  I  revised 
my  initial  plan;  I  gave  away  several  insigni 
ficant  sums  to  the  poor;  I  presented  the  vil 
lage  church  with  a  few  new  ornaments;  I 
gave  several  thousand  francs  to  the  Sacred 
House  of  Mercy,  etc.  I  did  not  forget  to 
erect  a  monument  upon  the  colonel's  grave 
— a  very  simple  monument,  all  marble,  the 
work  of  a  Neapolitan  sculptor  who  remained 
at  Rio  until  1866,  and  who  has  since  died,  I 
believe,  in  Paraguay. 

Years  have  gone  by.  My  memory  has  be 
come  vague  and  unreliable.  Sometimes  I 
think  of  the  colonel,  but  without  feeling 
again  the  terrors  of  those  early  days.  All 
the  doctors  to  whom  I  have  described  his  af 
flictions  have  been  unanimous  as  regards 
the  inevitable  en(J  in  store  for  the  invalid. 


62  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

and  were  indeed  surprised  that  he  should  so 
long  have  resisted.  It  is  just  possible  that  I 
may  have  involuntarily  exaggerated  the  des 
cription  of  his  various  symptoms;  but  the 
truth  is  that  he  was  sure  of  sudden  death, 
even  had  this  fatality  not  occurred.  .  .  . 

Good-bye,  my  dear  sir.  If  you  deem  these 
notes  not  totally  devoid  of  value  reward  me 
for  them  with  a  marble  tomb,  and  place  there 
for  my  epitaph  this  variant  which  I  have 
made  of  the  divine  sermon  on  the  mount: 

"Blessed  are  they  who  possess,  for  they 
shall  be  consoled." 


THE    FORTUNE-TELLER 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER 

BY  JOAQUIM  MARIA  MACHADO  DE  Assis 

HAMLET  observes  to  Horatio  that 
there  are  more  things  in  heaven 
and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in 
our  philosophy.  This  was  the  selfsame  ex 
planation  that  was  given  by  beautiful  Rita  to 
her  lover,  Camillo,  on  a  certain  Friday  of  No 
vember,  1869,  when  Camillo  laughed  at  her 
for  having  gone,  the  previous  evening,  to 
consult  a  fortune-teller.  The  only  difference 
is  that  she  made  her  explanation  in  other 
words. 

"Laugh,  laugh.  That's  just  like  you  men; 
you  don't  believe  in  anything.  Well,  let  me 
tell  you,  I  went  there  and  she  guessed  the 
reason  for  my  coming  before  I  ever  spoke  a 
word.  Scarcely  had  she  begun  to  lay  out 
the  cards  when  she  said  to  me:  'The  lady 
likes  a  certain  person  .  .  .  '  I  confessed  that 
it  was  so,  and  then  she  continued  to  rear 
range  the  cards  in  various  combinations, 
finally  telling  me  that  I  was  afraid  you  would 
forget  me,  but  that  there  were  no  grounds 
for  my  fear." 

65 


66  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

"She  was  wrong!"  interrupted  Camillo 
with  a  laugh. 

"Don't  say  that,  Camillo.  If  you  only 
realized  in  what  anguish  I  went  there,  all  on 
account  of  you.  You  know.  I've  told  you 
before.  Don't  laugh  at  me;  don't  poke  fun  at 
me  ..." 

Camillo  seized  her  hands  and  gazed  into 
her  eyes  earnestly  and  long.  He  swore  that 
he  loved  her  ever  so  much,  that  her  fears 
were  childish;  in  any  case,  should  she  ever 
harbor  a  fear,  the  best  fortune-teller  to  con 
sult  was  he  himself.  Then  he  reproved  her, 
saying  that  it  was  imprudent  to  visit  such 
houses.  Villela  might  learn  of  it,  and 
then  .  . . 

"Impossible!  I  was  exceedingly  careful 
when  I  entered  the  place." 

"Where  is  the  house?" 

"Near  here.  On  Guarda-Velha  Street. 
Nobody  was  passing  by  at  the  time.  Rest 
easy.  I'm  not  a  fool." 

Camillo  laughed  again. 

"Do  you  really  believe  in  such  things?"  he 
asked. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  she  translated 
Hamlet  into  every-day  speech,  assuring  her 
lover  that  there  was  many  a  true,  mysterious 
thing  in  this  world.  If  he  was  skeptical,  let 


THE    FORTUNE-TELLER  67 

him  have  patience.  One  thing,  however,  was 
certain:  the  card  reader  had  guessed  every 
thing.  What  more  could  he  desire?  The 
best  proof  wag  that  at  this  moment  she  was 
at  ease  and  content. 

He  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  restrained 
himself.  He  did  not  wish  to  destroy  her  il 
lusions.  He,  too,  when  a  child,  and  even 
later,  had  been  superstitious,  filled  with  an 
arsenal  of  beliefs  which  his  mother  had  in 
stilled,  and  which  had  disappeared  by  the 
time  he  reached  twenty.  The  day  on  which 
he  rid  himself  of  all  this  parasitic  vegetation, 
leaving  behind  only  the  trunk  of  religion, 
he  wrapped  his  superstition  and  his  religion 
(which  had  both  been  inculcated  by  his 
mother)  in  the  same  doubt,  and  soon  arrived 
at  a  single,  total  negation.  Camillo  believed 
in  nothing.  Why?  He  could  not  have  an 
swered  ;  he  had  not  a  solitary  reason ;  he  was 
content  simply  to  deny  everything.  But  I 
express  myself  ill,  for  to  deny  is  in  a  sense  to 
affirm,  and  he  did  not  formulate  his  unbelief. 
Before  the  great  mystery  he  simply  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  went  on. 

The  lovers  parted  in  good  spirits,  he  more 
happy  than  she.  Rita  was  sure  that  she  was 
loved ;  but  Camillo  was  not  only  sure  that  she 
loved  him,  but  saw  how  she  trembled  for  him 


68  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

and  even  took  risks,  running  to  fortune-tel 
lers.  However  much  he  had  reproved  her  for 
this,  he  could  not  help  feeling  flattered  by  it. 
Their  secret  meeting-place  was  in  the  old 
Barbonos  street  at  the  home  of  a  woman 
that  came  from  Rita's  province.  Rita 
went  off  through  Mangueiras  street,  in  the 
direction  of  Botafogo,  where  she  resided; 
Camillo  entered  Guarda-Velha  street,  keep 
ing  his  eye  open,  as  he  passed,  for  the  home 
of  the  card  reader. 

Villela,  Camillo  and  Rita:  three  names,  one 
adventure  and  no  explanation  of  how  it  all 
began.  Let  us  proceed  to  explain.  The  first 
two  were  friends  since  earliest  childhood. 
Villela  had  entered  the  magistracy.  Camillo 
found  employment  with  the  government, 
against  the  will  of  his  father,  who  desired  him 
to  embrace  the  medical  profession.  But  his 
father  had  died,  and  Camillo  preferred  to  be 
nothing  at  all,  until  his  mother  had  procured 
him  a  departmental  position.  At  the  begin 
ning  of  the  year  1869  Villela  returned  from 
the  interior,  where  he  had  married  a  silly 
beauty;  he  abandoned  the  magistracy  and 
came  hither  to  open  a  lawyer's  office.  Ca 
millo  had  secured  a  house  for  him  near  Bota 
fogo  and  had  welcomed  him  home. 

"Is  this  the  gentleman?"  exclaimed  Rita, 


THE   FORTUNE-TELLER  69 

offering  Camillo  her  hand.  "You  can't 
imagine  how  highly  my  husband  thinks  of 
you.  He  was  always  talking  about  you." 

Camillo  and  Villela  looked  at  each  other 
tenderly.  They  were  true  friends.  After 
wards,  Camillo  confessed  to  himself  that  Vil- 
lela's  wife  did  not  at  all  belie  the  enthusiastic 
letters  her  husband  had  written  to  him. 
Really,  she  was  most  prepossessing,  lively  in 
her  movements,  her  eyes  burning,  her  mouth 
plastic  and  piquantly  inquiring.  Rita  was  a 
trifle  older  than  both  the  men:  she  was  thirty, 
Villela  twenty-nine  and  Camillo  twenty-six. 
The  grave  bearing  of  Villela  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  being  much  older  than  his 
wife,  while  Camillo  was  but  a  child  in  moral 
and  practical  life.  ...  He  possessed  neither 
experience  nor  intuition. 

The  three  became  closely  bound.  Propin 
quity  bred  intimacy.  Shortly  afterwards 
Camillo's  mother  died,  and  in  this  catas 
trophe,  for  such  it  was,  the  other  two  showed 
themselves  to  be  genuine  friends  of  his.  Vil 
lela  took  charge  of  the  interment,  of  the 
church  services  and  the  settlement  of  the  af 
fairs  of  the  deceased;  Rita  dispensed  conso 
lation,  and  none  could  do  it  better. 

Just  how  this  intimacy  between  Camillo 
and  Rita  grew  to  love  he  never  knew.  The 


70  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

truth  is  that  he  enjoyed  passing  the  hours  at 
her  side;  she  was  his  spiritual  nurse,  almost 
a  sister, — but  most  of  all  she  was  a  woman, 
and  beautiful.  The  aroma  of  femininity:  this 
is  what  he  yearned  for  in  her,  and  about  her, 
seeking  to  incorporate  it  into  himself.  They 
read  the  same  books,  they  went  together  to 
the  theatre  or  for  walks.  He  taught  her 
cards  and  chess,  and  they  played  of  nights;— 
she  badly, — he,  to  make  himself  agreeable, 
but  little  less  badly.  Thus  much,  as  far  as 
external  things  are  concerned.  And  now 
came  personal  intimacies,  the  timorous  eyes 
of  Rita,  that  so  often  sought  his  own,  con 
sulting  them  before  they  questioned  those  of 
her  own  husband, — the  touches  of  cold 
hands,  and  unwonted  communion.  On  one 
of  his  birthdays  he  received  from  Villela  a 
costly  cane,  and  from  Rita,  a  hastily  pen 
cilled,  ordinary  note  expressing  good  wishes. 
It  was  then  that  he  learned  to  read  within 
his  own  heart;  he  could  not  tear  his  eyes 
away  from  the  missive.  Commonplace 
words,  it  is  true ;  but  there  are  sublime  com 
monplaces, — or  at  least,  delightful  ones.  The 
old  chaise  in  which  for  the  first  time  you 
rode  with  your  beloved,  snuggled  together, 
is  as  good  as  the  chariot  of  Apollo.  Such  is 


THE   FORTUNE-TELLER  71 

man,  and  such  are  the  circumstances  that 
surround  him. 

Camillo  sincerely  wished  to  flee  the  situ 
ation,  but  it  was  already  beyond  his  power. 
Rita,  like  a  serpent,  was  charming  him,  wind 
ing  her  coils  about  him;  she  was  crushing 
his  bones,  darting  her  venemous  fangs  into 
his  lips.  He  was  helpless,  overcome.  Vexa 
tion,  fear,  remorse,  desire, — all  this  he  felt, 
in  a  strange  confusion.  But  the  battle  was 
short  and  the  victory  deliriously  intoxicating. 
Farewell,  all  scruple!  The  shoe  now  fitted 
snugly  enough  upon  the  foot,  and  there  they 
were  both,  launched  upon  the  high  road,  arm 
in  arm,  joyfully  treading  the  grass  and  the 
gravel,  without  suffering  anything  more  than 
lonesomeness  when  they  were  away  from 
each  other.  As  to  Villela,  his  confidence  in 
his  wife  and  his  esteem  for  his  friend  con 
tinued  the  same  as  before. 

One  day,  however,  Camillo  received  an 
anonymous  letter,  which  called  him  immor 
al  and  perfidious,  and  warned  him  that  his 
adventure  was  known  to  all.  Camillo  took 
fright,  and,  in  order  to  ward  off  suspicion, 
began  to  make  his  visits  to  Villela's  house 
more  rare.  The  latter  asked  him  the  reason 
for  his  prolonged  absence.  Camillo  an 
swered  that  the  cause  was  a  youthful  flirta- 


72  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

tion.  Simplicity  evolved  into  cunning.  Ca- 
millo's  absences  became  longer  and  longer, 
and  then  his  visits  ceased  entirely.  Into  this 
course  there  may  have  entered  a  little  self- 
respect, — the  idea  of  diminishing  his  obliga 
tions  to  the  husband  in  order  to  make  his 
own  actions  appear  less  treacherous. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Rita,  uncertain 
and  in  fear,  ran  to  the  fortune-teller  to  con 
sult  her  upon  the  real  reason  for  Camillo's 
actions.  As  we  have  seen,  the  card  reader 
restored  the  wife's  confidence  and  the  young 
man  reproved  her  for  having  done  what  she 
did.  A  few  weeks  passed.  Camillo  received 
two  or  three  more  anonymous  letters,  writ 
ten  with  such  passionate  anger  that  they 
could  not  have  been  prompted  by  mere  re 
gard  for  virtue ;  surely  they  came  from  some 
violent  rival  of  his.  In  this  opinion  Rita  con 
curred,  formulating,  in  ill-composed  words  of 
her  own,  this  thought:  virtue  is  indolent  and 
niggardly,  wasting  neither  time  nor  paper; 
only  self-interest  is  alert  and  prodigal. 

But  this  did  not  help  to  ease  Camillo;  he 
now  feared  lest  the  anonymous  writer  should 
inform  Villela,  in  which  case  the  catastrophe 
would  follow  fast  and  implacably.  Rita 
agreed  that  this  was  possible. 

"Very  well/'  she  said.     "Give  me  the  en- 


THE   FORTUNE-TELLER  73 

velopes  in  which  the  letters  came,  so  that  I 
may  compare  the  handwriting  with  that  of 
the  mail  which  comes  to  him.  If  any  ar 
rives  with  writing  resembling  the  anonymous 
script,  I'll  keep  it  and  tear  it  up  ..." 

But  no  such  letter  appeared.  A  short  time 
after  this,  however,  Villela  commenced  to 
grow  grave,  speaking  very  little,  as  if  some 
thing  weighed  upon  his  mind.  Rita  hurried 
to  communicate  the  change  to  her  lover,  and 
they  discussed  the  matter  earnestly.  Her 
opinion  was  that  Camillo  should  renew  his 
visits  to  their  home,  and  sound  her  husband ; 
it  might  be  that  Villela  would  confide  to  him 
some  business  worry.  With  this  Camillo  dis 
agreed;  to  appear  after  so  many  months  was 
to  confirm  the  suspicions  and  denunciations 
of  the  anonymous  letters.  It  was  better  to 
be  very  careful,  to  give  each  other  up  for 
several  weeks.  They  arranged  means  for 
communicating  with  each  other  in  case  of 
necessity  and  separated,  in  tears. 

On  the  following  day  Camillo  received  at 
his  department  this  letter  from  Villela: 
"Come  immediately  to  our  house;  I  must  talk 
to  you  without  delay."  It  was  past  noon. 
Camillo  left  at  once;  as  he  reached  the 
street  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  have 
been  much  more  natural  for  Villela  to  have 


74  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

called  him  to  his  office;  why  to  his  house? 
All  this  betokened  a  very  urgent  matter; 
moreover,  whether  it  was  reality  or  illusion, 
it  seemed  to  Camillo  that  the  letter  was  writ 
ten  in  a  trembling  hand.  He  sought  to  es 
tablish  a  connection  between  all  these  things 
and  the  news  Rita  had  brought  him  the  night 
before. 

"Come  immediately  to  our  house;  I  must 
talk  to  you  without  delay,"  he  repeated,  his 
eyes  staring  at  the  note. 

In  his  mind's  eye  he  beheld  the  climax  of  a 
drama, — Rita  cowed,  weeping;  Villela  indig 
nant,  seizing  his  pen  and  dashing  off  the  let 
ter,  certain  that  he,  Camillo,  would  answer 
in  person,  and  waiting  to  kill  him  as  he  en 
tered.  Camillo  shuddered  with  terror;  then 
he  smiled  weakly;  in  any  event  the  idea  of 
drawing  back  was  repugnant  to  him.  So  he 
continued  on  his  way.  As  he  walked  it  oc 
curred  to  him  to  step  into  his  rooms;  he 
might  find  there  a  message  from  Rita  ex 
plaining  everything.  But  he  found  nothing, 
nobody.  He  returned  to  the  street,  and  the 
thought  that  they  had  been  discovered  grew 
every  moment  more  convincing;  yes,  the 
author  of  the  previous  anonymous  communi 
cations  must  have  denounced  him  to  the  hus 
band  ;  perhaps  by  now  Villela  knew  all.  The 


THE   FORTUNE-TELLER  75 

very  suspension  of  his  calls  without  any  ap 
parent  reason,  with  the  flimsiest  of  pretexts, 
would  confirm  everything  else. 

Camillo  walked  hastily  along,  agitated, 
nervous.  He  did  not  read  the  letter  again, 
but  the  words  hovered  persistently  before  his 
eyes;  or  else, — which  was  even  worse — they 
seemed  to  be  murmured  into  his  ears  by  the 
voice  of  Villela  himself.  "Come  immediately 
to  our  house ;  I  must  talk  to  you  without  de 
lay."  Spoken  thus  by  the  voice  of  the  other 
they  seemed  pregnant  with  mystery  and 
menace.  Come  immediately, — why?  It  was 
now  nearly  one  o'clock.  Camillo's  agitation 
waxed  greater  with  each  passing  moment. 
So  clearly  did  he  imagine  what  was  about  to 
take  place  that  he  began  to  believe  it  a 
reality,  to  see  it  before  his  very  eyes.  Yes, 
without  a  doubt,  he  was  afraid.  He  even 
considered  arming  himself  ,thinking  that  if 
nothing  should  happen  he  would  lose  nothing 
by  this  useful  precaution.  But  at  once  he 
rejected  the  idea,  angry  with  himself,  and 
hastened  his  step  towards  Carioca  square, 
there  to  take  a  tilbury.  He  arrived,  entered 
and  ordered  the  driver  to  be  off  at  full  speed. 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  he  thought.  "I 
can't  stand  this  uncertainty." 

But  the  very  sound  of  the  horse's  clatter- 


76  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

ing  hoofs  increased  his  agitation.  Time  was 
flying,  and  he  would  be  face  to  face  with 
clanger  soon  enough.  When  they  had  come 
almost  to  the  end  of  Guarda-Velha  street  the 
tilbury  had  to  come  to  a  stop ;  the  thorough 
fare  was  blocked  by  a  coach  that  had  broken 
down.  Camillo  surveyed  the  obstruction 
and  decided  to  wait.  After  five  minutes  had 
gone  by,  he  noticed  that  there  at  his  left,  at 
the  very  foot  of  the  tilbury,  was  the  fortune 
teller's  house, — the  very  same  as  Rita  had 
once  consulted.  Never,  as  at  this  moment, 
had  he  so  desired  to  believe  in  card-reading. 
He  looked  closer,  saw  that  the  windows  were 
closed,  while  all  the  others  on  the  street  were 
opened,  filled  with  folks  curious  to  see  what 
was  the  matter.  It  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  the  dwelling  of  indifferent  Fate. 

Camillo  leaned  back  in  his  seat  so  as  to 
shut  all  this  from  view.  His  excitement  was 
intense,  extraordinary,  and  from  the  deep, 
hidden  recesses  of  his  mind  there  began  to 
emerge  spectres  of  early  childhood,  old  be 
liefs,  banished  superstitions.  The  coach 
man  proposed  another  route;  he  shook  his 
head  and  said  that  he  would  wait.  He  leaned 
forward  to  get  a  better  look  at  the  card- 
reader's  house  . . .  Then  he  made  a  gesture  of 
self-ridicule:  it  had  entered  his  mind  to  con- 


THE   FORTUNE-TELLER  77 

suit  the  fortune-teller,  who  seemed  to  be 
hovering  over  him,  far,  far  above,  with  vast, 
ash-colored  wings;  she  disappeared,  reap 
peared,  and  then  her  image  was  lost;  then, 
in  a  few  moments,  the  ash-colored  wings 
stirred  again,  nearer,  flying  about  him  in 
narrowing  circles  ...  In  the  street  men  were 
shouting,  dragging  away  the  coach. 
"There!  Now!  Push!  That's  it!  Now!" 
In  a  short  while  the  obstruction  was  re 
moved.  Camillo  closed  his  eyes,  trying  to 
think  of  other  things ;  but  the  voice  of  Rita's 
husband  whispered  into  his  ears  the  words  of 
the  letter:  "Come  immediately  ..."  And  he 
could  behold  the  anguish  of  the  drama.  He 
trembled.  The  house  seemed  to  look  right 
at  him.  His  feet  instinctively  moved  as  if  to 
leave  the  carriage  and  go  in  ...  Camillo 
found  himself  before  a  long,  opaque  veil  .  .  . 
he  thought  rapidly  of  the  inexplicability  of 
so  many  things.  The  voice  of  his  mother 
was  repeating  to  him  a  host  of  extraordinary 
happenings;  and  the  very  sentence  of  the 
Prince  of  Denmark  kept  echoing  within  him: 

"There  are  more  things  In  heaven  and  earth, 

Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy." 


78  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

What  could  he  lose  by  it,  if  . . .  ? 

He  jumped  out  to  the  pavement,  just  be 
fore  the  fortune-teller's  door;  he  told  the 
driver  to  wait  for  him,  and  hastened  into  the 
entry,  ascending  the  stairs.  There  was  lit 
tle  light,  the  stairs  were  worn  away  from  the 
many  feet  that  had  sought  them,  the  banis 
ter  was  smooth  and  sticky;  but  he  saw  and 
felt  nothing.  He  stumbled  up  the  stairs  and 
knocked.  Nobody  appearing,  he  was  about 
to  go  down;  but  it  was  too  late  now,— 
curiosity  was  whipping  his  blood  and  his 
heart  beat  with  violent  throbs;  he  turned 
back  to  the  door,  and  knocked  once,  twice, 
three  times.  He  beheld  a  woman ;  it  was  the 
card-reader.  Camillo  said  that  he  had  come 
to  consult  her,  and  she  bade  him  enter. 
Thence  they  climbed  to  the  attic  by  a  stair 
case  even  worse  than  the  first  and  buried  in 
deeper  gloom.  At  the  top  there  was  a  gar 
ret,  ill  lighted  by  a  small  window.  Old  furni 
ture,  somber  walls,  and  an  air  of  poverty 
augumented,  rather  than  destroyed,  the  pres 
tige  of  the  occupant. 

The  fortune-teller  told  him  to  be  seated  be 
fore  the  table,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  op 
posite  side  with  her  back  to  the  window,  so 
that  whatever  little  light  came  from  without 
fell  full  upon  Camillo's  face.  She  opened  a 


THE    FORTUNE-TELLER  79 

drawer  and  took  out  a  pack  of  worn,  filthy 
cards.  While  she  rapidly  shuffled  them  she 
peered  at  him  closely,  not  so  much  with  a 
direct  gaze  as  from  under  her  eyes.  She  was 
a  woman  of  forty,  Italian,  thin  and  swarthy, 
with  large,  sharp,  cunning  eyes.  She  placed 
three  cards  upon  the  table,  and  said: 

"Let  us  first  see  what  has  brought  you 
here.  The  gentleman  has  just  received  a 
severe  shock  and  is  in  great  fear  ..." 

Camillo,  astonished,  nodded  affirmatively. 

"And  he  wishes  to  know,"  she  continued, 
"whether  anything  will  happen  to  him  or 
not ...  " 

"To  me  and  to  her,"  he  explained,  excited 
ly. 

The  fortune-teller  did  not  smile;  she  sim 
ply  told  him  to  wait.  She  took  the  cards 
hastily  once  more  and  shuffled  them  with  her 
long  tapering  fingers  whose  nails  were  so 
long  and  unclean  from  neglect;  she  shuffled 
them  well,  once,  twice,  thrice;  then  she  be 
gan  to  lay  them  out.  Camillo' s  eyes  were 
riveted  upon  her  in  anxious  curiosity. 

"The  cards  tell  me  ..." 

Camillo  leaned  forward  to  drink  in  her 
words  one  by  one.  Then  she  told  him  to 
fear  nothing.  Nothing  would  happen  to  him 
or  to  the  other.  He,  the  third,  was  aware  of 


80  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

nought.  Nevertheless,  great  caution  was  in 
dispensable;  envy  and  rivalry  were  at  work. 
She  spoke  to  him  of  the  love  that  bound 
them,  of  Rita's  beauty  .  .  .  Camillo  was  be 
wildered.  The  fortune-teller  stopped  talk 
ing,  gathered  the  cards  and  locked  them  in 
the  drawer. 

"The  lady  has  restored  peace  to  my  spirit," 
he  said,  offering  her  his  hand  across  the 
table  and  pressing  that  of  the  card-reader. 

She  arose,  laughing. 

"Go,"  she  said.  "Go,  ragazzo  innamo- 
rato  .  .  .  'J1 

And  arising,  she  touched  his  head  with  her 
index  finger.  Camillo  shuddered,  as  if  it  were 
the  hand  of  one  of  the  original  sybils,  and  he, 
too,  arose.  The  fortune-teller  went  to  the 
bureau,  upon  which  lay  a  plate  of  raisins, 
took  a  cluster  of  them  and  commenced  to  eat 
them,  showing  two  rows  of  teeth  that  were 
as  white  as  her  nails  were  black.  Even  in 
this  common  action  the  woman  possessed 
an  air  all  her  own.  Camillo,  anxious  to 
leave,  was  at  a  loss  how  much  to  pay;  he 
did  not  know  her  fee. 

"Raisins  cost  money,"  he  said,  at  length, 
taking  out  his  pocket-book.  "How  much  do 
you  want  to  send  for?" 

^Italian  for  "love-sick  boy,"  young  lover,"  etc. 


THE    FORTUNE-TELLER  81 

"Ask  your  heart,"  she  replied. 

Camillo  took  out  a  note  for  ten  milreis'2 
and  gave  it  to  her.  The  eyes  of  the  card- 
reader  sparkled.  Her  usual  fee  was  two 
milreis. 

"I  can  see  easily  that  the  gentleman  loves 
his  lady  very  much  .  .  .  And  well  he  may. 
For  she  loves  the  gentleman  very  deeply,  too. 
Go,  go  in  peace,  with  your  mind  at  ease. 
And  take  care  as  you  descend  the  staircase, — 
it's  dark.  Don't  forget  your  hat ..." 

The  fortune-teller  had  already  placed  the 
note  in  her  pocket,  and  accompanied  him 
down  the  stairs,  chatting  rather  gaily.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  first  flight  Camillo  bid  her 
good-bye  and  ran  down  the  stairs  that  led  to 
the  street,  while  the  card-reader,  rejoicing  in 
her  large  fee,  turned  back  to  the  garret,  hum 
ming  a  barcarolle.  Camillo  found  the  til 
bury  waiting  for  him;  the  street  was  now 
clear.  He.  entered  and  the  driver  whipped 
his  horse  into  a  fast  trot. 

To  Camillo  everything  had  now  changed 
for  the  better  and  his  affairs  assumed  a 
brighter  aspect;  the  sky  was  clear  and  the 
faces  of  the  people  he  passed  were  all  so 
merry.  He  even  began  to  laugh  at  his 

2  In  United  States  money  ten  Brazilian  milreis  are 
equivalent  to  about  $5.50. 


82  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

fears,  which  he  now  saw  were  puerile ;  he  re 
called  the  language  of  Villela's  letter  and 
perceived  at  once  that  it  was  most  friend 
ly  and  familiar.  How  in  the  world  had  he 
ever  been  able  to  read  any  threat  of  danger 
into  those  words !  He  suddenly  realized  that 
they  were  urgent,  however,  and  that  he  had 
done  ill  to  delay  so  long;  it  might  be  some 
very  serious  business  affair. 

"Faster,  faster!"  he  cried  to  the  driver. 

And  he  began  to  think  of  a  plausible  ex 
planation  of  his  delay;  he  even  contemplated 
taking  advantage  of  this  incident  to  re-estab 
lish  his  former  intimacy  in  Villela's  house 
hold  .  .  .  Together  with  his  plans  there  kept 
echoing  in  his  soul  the  words  of  the  fortune 
teller.  In  truth,  she  had  guessed  the  object 
of  his  visit,  his  own  state  of  mind,  and  the 
existence  of  a  third;  why,  then,  wasn't  it 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  she  had  guessed 
the  rest  correctly,  too?  For,  the  unknown 
present  is  the  same  as  the  future.  And  thus, 
slowly  and  persistently  the  young  man's 
childhood  superstitions  attained  the  upper 
hand  and  mystery  clutched  him  in  its  iron 
claws.  At  times  he  was  ready  to  burst  into 
laughter,  and  with  a  certain  vexation  he  did 
laugh  at  himself.  But  the  woman,  the  cards, 
her  dry,  reassuring  words,  and  her  good-bye 


THE   FORTUNE-TELLER  83 

—"Go,  go,  ragazzo  innamorato"  and  finally, 
that  farewell  barcarolle,  so  lively  and  gra 
cious, — such  were  the  new  elements  which, 
together  with  the  old,  formed  within  him  a 
new  and  abiding  faith. 

The  truth  is  that  his  heart  was  happy  and 
impatient,  recalling  the  happy  hours  of  the 
past  and  anticipating  those  yet  to  come.  As 
he  passed  through  Gloria  street  Camillo 
gazed  across  the  sea,  far  across  where  the 
waters  and  the  heaven  meet  in  endless  em 
brace,  and  the  sight  gave  him  a  sensation  of 
the  future, — long,  long  and  infinite. 

From  here  it  was  but  a  moment's  drive  to 
Villela's  home.  He  stepped  out,  thrust  the 
iron  garden  gate  open  and  entered.  The 
house  was  silent.  He  ran  up  the  six  stone 
steps  and  scarcely  had  he  had  time  to  knock 
when  the  door  opened  and  Villela  loomed 
before  him. 

"Pardon  my  delay.  It  was  impossible  to 
come  sooner.  What  is  the  matter?" 

Villela  made  no  reply.  His  features  were 
distorted;  he  beckoned  Camillo  to  step  with 
in.  As  he  entered,  Camillo  could  not  repress 
a  cry  of  horror: — there  upon  the  sofa  lay 
Rita,  dead  in  a  pool  of  blood.  Villela  seized 
the  lover  by  the  throat  and,  with  two  bullets, 
stretched  him  dead  upon  the  floor. 


LIFE 


LIFE 

BY  JOAQUIM  MARIA  MACHADO  DE  Assis 

End  of  time.  Ahasverus,  seated  upon  a  rock, 
gazes  for  a  long  while  upon  the  horizon,  athwart 
which  wing  two  eagles,  crossing  each  other  in  their 
path.  He  meditates,  then  falls  into  a  doze.  The  day 
wanes. 

AHASVERUS 

I  have  come  to  the  end  of  time ;  this  is  the 
threshold  of  eternity.  The  earth  is  deserted ; 
no  other  man  breathes  the  air  of  life.  I  am 
the  last;  I  can  die.  Die!  Precious  thought! 
For  centuries  of  centuries  I  have  lived, 
wearied,  mortified,  wandering  ever,  but  now 
the  centuries  are  coming  to  an  end,  and  I 
shall  die  with  them.  Ancient  nature,  fare 
well!  Azure  sky,  clouds  ever  reborn,  roses 
of  a  day  and  of  every  day,  perennial  waters, 
hostile  earth  that  never  would  devour  my 
bones,  farewell!  The  eternal  wanderer  will 
wander  no  longer.  God  may  pardon  me  if 
He  wishes,  but  death  will  console  me.  That 
87 


88  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

mountain  is  as  unyielding  as  my  grief;  those 
eagles  that  fly  yonder  must  be  as  famished 
as  my  despair.  Shall  you,  too,  die,  divine 
eagles? 

PROMETHEUS 

Of  a  surety  the  race  of  man  is  perished; 
the  earth  is  bare  of  them. 

AHASVERUS 

I  hear  a  voice.  .  .  .  The  voice  of  a  human 
being?  Implacable  heavens,  am  I  not  then 
the  last?  He  approaches.  . .  .  Who  are  you? 
There  shines  in  your  large  eyes  something 
like  the  mysterious  light  of  the  archangels 
of  Israel;  you  are  not  a  human  being?  .  .  . 

PROMETHEUS 
No. 

AHASVERUS 
Of  a  race  divine,  then? 

PROMETHEUS 
You  have  said  it. 

AHASVERUS 

I  do  not  know  you;  but  what  matters  it 
that  I  do  not?  You  are  not  a  human  being; 
then  I  may  die;  for  I  am  the  last  and  I  close 
the  gate  of  life. 


LIFE  89 

PROMETHEUS 

Life,  like  ancient  Thebes,  has  a  hundred 
gates.  You  close  one,  and  others  will  open. 
You  are  the  last  of  your  species?  Then  an 
other  better  species  will  come,  made  not  of 
clay,  but  of  the  light  itself.  Yes,  last  of  men, 
all  the  common  spirits  will  perish  forever; 
the  flower  of  them  it  is  which  will  return 
to  earth  and  rule.  The  ages  will  be  recti 
fied.  Evil  will  end;  the  winds  will  thence 
forth  scatter  neither  the  germs  of  death  nor 
the  clamor  of  the  oppressed,  but  only  the 
song  of  love  everlasting  and  the  benediction 
of  universal  justice  .... 

AHASVERUS 

What  can  all  this  posthumous  joy  matter  to 
the  species  that  dies  with  me?  Believe  me, 
you  who  are  immortal,  to  the  bones  that  rot 
in  the  earth  the  purples  of  Sidonia  are  worth 
less.  What  you  tell  me  is  even  better  than 
what  Campanella  dreamed.  In  that  man's 
ideal  city  there  were  delights  and  ills;  yours 
excludes  all  mortal  and  physical  ailments. 
May  the  Lord  hear  you!  But  let  me  go  and 
die. 

PROMETHEUS 

Go,  go.  But  why  this  haste  to  end  your 
days? 


90  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

AHASVERUS 

The  haste  of  a  man  who  has  lived  for  thou 
sands  of  years.  Yes,  thousands  of  years. 
Men  who  existed  scarcely  scores  of  them  in 
vented  a  feeling  of  ennui,  tedium  vitae,  which 
they  could  never  know,  at  least  in  all  its  im 
placable  and  vast  reality,  because  it  is  neces 
sary  to  have  journeyed  through  all  the  gene 
rations  and  all  the  cataclysms  to  feel  that 
profound  surfeit  of  existence. 

PROMETHEUS 
Thousands  of  years? 

AHASVERUS 

My  name  is  Ahasverus;  I  dwelt  in  Jerusa 
lem  at  the  time  they  were  about  to  crucify 
Christ.  When  he  passed  my  door  he  weak 
ened  under  the  burden  of  the  beam  that  he 
carried  on  his  shoulders,  and  I  thrust  him 
onward,  admonishing  him  not  to  stop,  not  to 
rest,  to  continue  on  his  way  to  the  hill  where 
he  was  to  be  crucified.  .  .  .  Then  there  came 
a  voice  from  heaven,  telling  me  that  I,  too, 
should  have  to  journey  forever,  continuously, 
until  the  end  of  time.  Such  was  my  crime; 
I  felt  no  pity  for  him  who  was  going  to  his 
death.  I  do  not  know  myself  how  it  came 
about.  The  Pharisees  said  that  the  son  of 


LIFE  91 

Mary  had  come  to  destroy  the  law,  and  that 
he  must  be  slain ;  I,  ignorant  wretch,  wished 
to  display  my  zeal  and  hence  my  action  of 
that  day.  How  many  times  have  I  seen  the 
same  thing  since,  traveling  unceasingly 
through  cities  and  ages!  Whenever  zealotry 
penetrated  into  a  submissive  soul,  it  became 
cruel  or  ridiculous.  My  crime  was  unpar 
donable. 

PROMETHEUS 

A  grave  crime,  in  truth,  but  the  punish 
ment  was  lenient.  The  other  men  read  but  a 
chapter  of  life;  you  have  read  the  whole 
book.  What  does  one  chapter  know  of  the 
other  chapter?  Nothing.  But  he  who  has 
read  them  all,  connects  them  and  concludes. 
Are  there  melancholy  pages?  There  are 
merry  and  happy  ones,  too.  Tragic  convul 
sion  precedes  that  of  laughter;  life  burgeons 
from  death;  swans  and  swallows  change  cli 
mate,  without  ever  abandoning  it  entirely; 
and  thus  all  is  harmonized  and  begun  anew. 
You  have  beheld  this,  not  ten  times,  not  a 
thousand  times,  but  ever;  you  have  beheld 
the  magnificence  of  the  earth  curing  the  af 
fliction  of  the  soul,  and  the  joy  of  the  soul 
compensating  for  the  desolation  of  things; 
the  alternating  dance  of  Nature,  who  gives 


92  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

her  left  hand  to  Job  and  her  right  to  Sar- 
danapalus. 

AHASVERUS 

What  do  you  know  of  my  life?  Nothing; 
you  are  ignorant  of  human  existence. 

PROMETHEUS 

I,  ignorant  of  human  life?  How  laugh 
able!  Come,  perpetual  man,  explain  your 
self.  Tell  me  everything;  you  left  Jerusa 
lem  .  .  . 

AHASVERUS 

I  left  Jerusalem.  I  began  my  wandering 
through  the  ages.  I  journeyed  everywhere, 
whatever  the  race,  the  creed,  the  tongue; 
suns  and  snows,  barbarous  and  civilized 
peoples,  islands,  continents;  wherever  a  man 
breathed,  there  breathed  I.  I  never  labored. 
Labor  is  a  refuge,  and  that  refuge  was  de 
nied  me.  Every  morning  I  found  upon  me 
the  necessary  money  for  the  day  .  .  .  See; 
this  is  the  last  apportionment.  Go,  for  I 
need  you  no  longer.  (He  draws  forth  the 
money  and  throws  It  away.)  I  did  not  work;  I 
just  journeyed,  ever  and  ever,  one  day  after 
another,  year  after  year  unendingly,  century 
after  century.  Eternal  justice  knew  what  it 
was  doing;  it  added  idleness  to  eternity.  One 


LIFE  93 

generation  bequeathed  me  to  the  other.  The 
languages,  as  they  died,  preserved  my  name 
like  a  fossil.  With  the  passing  of  time  all 
was  forgotten;  the  heroes  faded  into  myths, 
into  shadow,  and  history  crumbled  to  frag 
ments,  only  two  or  three  vague,  remote 
characteristics  remaining  to  it.  And  I  saw 
them  in  changing  aspect.  You  spoke  of  a 
chapter?  Happy  are  those  who  read  only 
one  chapter  of  life.  Those  who  depart  at 
the  birth  of  empires  bear  with  them  the  im 
pression  of  their  perpetuity;  those  who  die  at 
their  fall,  are  buried  in  the  hope  of  their  res 
toration  ;  but  do  you  not  realize  what  it  is  to 
see  the  same  things  unceasingly, — the  same 
alternation  of  prosperity  and  desolation, 
desolation  and  prosperity,  eternal  obsequies 
and  eternal  halleluiahs,  dawn  upon  dawn, 
sunset  upon  sunset? 

PROMETHEUS 

But  you  did  not  suffer,  I  believe.  It  is 
something  not  to  suffer. 

AHASVERUS 

Yes,  but  I  saw  other  men  suffer,  and  in  the 
end  the  spectacle  of  joy  gave  me  the  same 
sensations  as  the  discourses  of  an  idiot.  Fa 
talities  of  flesh  and  blood,  unending  strife, — 


94  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

I  saw  all  pass  before  my  eyes,  until  night 
caused  me  to  lose  my  taste  for  day,  and  now 
I  cannot  distinguish  flowers  from  thistles. 
Everything  is  confused  in  my  wearied  retina. 

PROMETHEUS 

But  nothing  pained  you  personally;  and 
what  about  me,  from  time  immemorial  suf 
fering  the  wrath  of  the  gods? 

AHASVERUS 
You? 

PROMETHEUS 
My  name  is  Prometheus. 

AHASVERUS 
You !    Prometheus ! 

PROMETHEUS 

And  what  was  my  crime?  Out  of  clay  and 
water  I  made  the  first  men,  and  afterwards, 
seized  with  compassion,  I  stole  for  them  fire 
from  the  sky.  Such  was  my  crime.  Jupi 
ter,  who  then  reigned  over  Olympus,  con 
demned  me  to  the  most  cruel  of  tortures. 
Come,  climb  this  rock  with  me. 

AHASVERUS 

You  are  telling  me  a  tale.  I  know  that 
Hellenic  myth. 


LIFE  95 

PROMETHEUS 

Incredulous  old  fellow!  Come  see  the 
very  chains  that  fettered  me;  it  was  an  ex 
cessive  penalty  for  no  crime  whatever;  but 
divine  pride  is  terrible  .  .  .  See;  there  they 
are  . . . 

AHASVERUS 

And  time,  which  gnaws  all  things,  does  not 
desire  them,  then? 

PROMETHEUS 

They  were  wrought  by  a  divine  hand.  Vul 
can  forged  them.  Two  emissaries  from 
heaven  came  to  secure  me  to  the  rock,  and 
an  eagle,  like  that  which  now  is  flying  across 
the  horizon,  kept  gnawing  at  my  liver  with 
out  ever  consuming  it.  This  lasted  for  time 
beyond  my  reckoning.  No,  no,  you  cannot 
imagine  this  torture  .  .  . 

AHASVERUS 

Are  you  not  deceiving  me?  You,  Prome 
theus?  Was  that  not,  then,  a  figment  of  the 
ancient  imagination? 

PROMETHEUS 

Look  well  at  me;  touch  these  hands.  See 
whether  I  really  exist. 


96  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

AHASVERUS 

Then  Moses  lied  to  me.  You  are  Prome 
theus,  creator  of  the  first  men? 

PROMETHEUS 
That  was  my  crime. 

AHASVERUS 

Yes,  it  was  your  crime, — an  artifice  of  hell ; 
your  crime  was  inexpiable.  You  should  have 
remained  forever,  bound  and  devoured,— 
you,  the  origin  of  the  ills  that  afflict  me.  I 
lacked  compassion,  it  is  true;  but  you,  who 
gave  me  life,  perverse  divinity,  were  the 
cause  of  all. 

PROMETHEUS 
Approaching  death  confuses  your  reason. 

AHASVERUS 

Yes,  it  is  you;  you  have  the  Olympic  fore 
head,  strong  and  beautiful  Titan;  it  is  you 
indeed  .  .  .  Are  these  your  chains?  I  see 
upon  them  no  trace  of  your  tears. 

PROMETHEUS 
I  wept  them  for  your  humankind. 

AHASVERUS 

And  humanity  wept  far  more  because  of 
your  crime. 


LIFE  97 

PROMETHEUS 
Hear  me,  last  of  men,  last  of  ingrates! 

AHASVERUS 

What  need  have  I  of  your  words?  I  de 
sire  your  groans,  perverse  divinity.  Here  are 
the  chains.  See  how  I  raise  them;  listen  to 
the  clank  of  the  iron  .  .  .  Who  unbound  you 
just  now? 

PROMETHEUS 
Hercules. 

AHASVERUS 

Hercules  . . .  See  whether  he  will  repeat  his 
service  now  that  you  are  to  be  bound  anew. 

PROMETHEUS 
You  are  raving 

AHASVERUS 

The  sky  gave  you  your  first  punishment, 
now  earth  will  give  you  the  second  and  the 
last.  Not  even  Hercules  will  ever  be  able 
to  break  these  fetters.  See  how  I  brandish 
them  in  the  air,  like  feathers !  for  I  represent 
the  power  of  millennial  despairs.  All  hu 
manity  is  concentrated  within  me.  Before  I 
sink  into  the  abyss,  I  will  write  upon  this 
stone  the  epitaph  of  a  world.  I  will  summon 


98  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

the  eagle,  and  it  will  come ;  I  will  tell  it  that 
the  last  man,  on  departing  from  life,  leaves 
him  a  god  as  a  gift. 

PROMETHEUS 

Poor,  ignorant  wretch,  who  rejects  a 
throne!  No,  you  cannot  reject  it. 

AHASVERUS 

Now  it  is  you  who  are  raving.  Kneel,  and 
let  me  manacle  your  arms.  So,  'tis  well  you 
will  resist  no  more.  Bend  this  way;  now 
your  legs  . . . 

PROMETHEUS 

Have  done,  have  done.  It  is  the  passions 
of  earth  turning  upon  me ;  but  I,  who  am  not 
a  human  being,  do  not  know  ingratitude.  You 
will  not  be  spared  a  jot  of  your  destiny;  it 
will  be  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  You  yourself 
will  be  the  new  Hercules.  I,  who  announced 
the  glory  of  the  other,  now  proclaim  yours; 
and  you  will  be  no  less  generous  than  he. 

AHASVERUS 
Are  you  mad? 

PROMETHEUS 

The  truth  unknown  to  man  is  the  madness 
of  him  who  proclaims  it.  Proceed,  and  have 
done, 


LIFE  99 

AHASVERUS 
Glory  pays  nothing,  and  dies. 

PROMETHEUS 

This  glory  will  never  die.  Have  done; 
have  done ;  show  the  sharp  beak  of  the  eagle 
where  it  is  to  devour  my  entrails.  But  hear 
me  .  .  .  No,  hear  nothing;  you  cannot  under 
stand  me. 

AHASVERUS 
Speak;  speak. 

PROMETHEUS 

The  ephemeral  world  cannot  understand 
the  world  eternal;  but  you  will  be  the  link 
between  the  two. 

AHASVERUS 
Tell  me  everything. 

PROMETHEUS 

I  speak  nothing;  fetter  these  wrists  well, 
that  I  shall  not  flee, — so  that  I  shall  be  here 
on  your  return.  Tell  you  all?  I  have  al 
ready  told  you  that  a  new  race  shall  people 
the  earth,  formed  of  the  chosen  spirits  of  the 
extinct  humanity;  the  multitude  of  others 
will  perish.  A  noble  family,  all-seeing  and 


100  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

powerful,  will  be  the  perfect  synthesis  of  the 
divine  and  the  human.  The  times  will  be 
others,  but  between  them  and  these  a  link  is 
necessary,  and  you  shall  be  that  link. 

AHASVERUS 
I? 

PROMETHEUS 

You  yourself;  you,  the  chosen  one;  you, 
the  King.  Yes,  Ahasverus.  You  shall  be 
King.  The  Wanderer  will  find  rest.  The 
despised  of  men  shall  rule  over  mankind. 

AHASVERUS 

Wily  Titan,  you  are  deceiving  me  ...  King, 
—I? 

PROMETHEUS 

You,  King.  Who  else,  then?  The  new 
world  needs  to  be  bound  by  a  tradition,  and 
none  can  speak  of  one  to  the  other  as  you 
can.  Thus  there  will  be  no  gap  between  the 
two  humanities.  The  perfect  will  proceed 
from  the  imperfect,  and  your  lips  will  tell 
the  new  world  its  origin.  You  will  relate  to 
the  new  humanity  all  the  ancient  good  and 
evil.  And  thus  will  you  live  anew  like  the 
tree  whose  dead  brances  are  lopped  off,  only 


LIFE  101 

the  flourishing  ones  being  preserved;  but 
here  growth  will  be  eternal. 

AHASVERUS 
Resplendent  vision!    I  myself? 

PROMETHEUS 
Your  very  self. 

AHASVERUS 

These  eyes  .  .  .  these  hands  ...  a  new  and 
better  life  .  .  .  Glorious  vision!  Titan,  it  is 
just.  Just  was  the  punishment;  but  equally 
just  is  the  glorious  remission  of  my  sin.  Shall 
I  live?  I  myself?  A  new  and  better  life? 
No,  you  are  jesting  with  me. 

PROMETHEUS 

Very  well,  then ;  leave  me.  You  will  return 
some  day,  when  this  vast  heaven  will  be  open 
to  let  the  spirits  of  the  new  life  descend.  You 
will  find  me  here  at  peace.  Go. 

AHASVERUS 
Shall  I  again  greet  the  sun? 

PROMETHEUS 

The  selfsame  sun  that  is  about  to  set. 
Friend  sun,  eye  of  time,  nevermore  shall  your 
eyelids  close.  Gaze  upon  it,  if  you  can. 


102  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

AHASVERUS 
I  cannot. 

PROMETHEUS 

You  will  be  able  to,  when  the  conditions  of 
life  shall  have  changed.  Then  your  retina 
will  gaze  upon  the  sun  without  peril,  for  in 
the  man  of  the  future  will  be  concentrated  all 
that  is  best  in  nature,  energizing  or  subtle, 
scintillating  or  pure. 

AHASVERUS 
Swear  that  you  are  not  lying. 

PROMETHEUS 
You  will  see  whether  I  lie. 

AHASVERUS 
Speak,  speak  on ;  tell  me  everything. 

PROMETHEUS 

The  description  of  life  is  not  worth  the 
sensation  of  life;  you  shall  experience  it  deep 
ly.  The  bosom  of  Abraham  in  your  old 
Scriptures  is  nothing  but  this  final,  perfect 
world.  There  you  will  greet  David  and  the 
prophets.  There  will  you  tell  to  the  astound 
ed  listeners,  not  only  the  great  events  of  the 
extinct  world,  but  also  the  ills  they  will  never 
know:  sickness,  old  age,  grief,  egotism,  hypo- 


LIFE  103 

crisy,  abhorrent  vanity,  imbecility,  and  the 
rest.  The  soul,  like  the  earth,  will  possess 
an  incorruptible  tunic. 

AHASVERUS 
I  shall  gaze  ever  on  the  immense  blue  sky? 

PROMETHEUS 
Behold  how  beautiful  it  is. 

AHASVERUS 

As  beautiful  and  serene  as  eternal  justice. 
Magnificent  heaven,  more  beautiful  than  the 
tents  of  Caesar.  I  shall  behold  you  forever; 
you  will  receive  my  thoughts,  as  before;  you 
will  grant  me  clear  days,  and  friendly 
nights  ,  .  . 

PROMETHEUS 
Dawn  upon  dawn. 

AHASVERUS 

Ah,  speak  on,  speak  on.  Tell  me  every 
thing.  Let  me  unbind  these  chains  .  .  . 

PROMETHEUS 

Loosen  them,  new  Hercules,  last  man  of 
the  old  world,  who  shall  be  the  first  of  the 
new.  Such  is  your  destiny;  neither  you  nor 
I, — nobody  can  alter  it.  You  go  farther  than 
your  Moses.  Prom  the  top  of  mount  Nebo, 


104  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

at  the  point  of  death,  he  beheld  the  land  of 
Jericho,  which  was  to  belong  to  his  descend 
ants  and  the  Lord  said  unto  him:  "Thou  hast 
seen  with  thine  eyes,  yet  shalt  not  pass  be 
yond."  You  shall  pass  beyond,  Ahasverus; 
you  shall  dwell  in  Jericho. 

AHASVERUS 

Place  your  hand  upon  my  head;  look  well 
at  me ;  fill  me  with  the  reality  of  your  predic 
tion;  Jet  me  breathe  a  little  of  the  new,  full 
life  ...  King,  did  you  say? 

PROMETHEUS 
The  chosen  king  of  a  chosen  people. 

AHASVERUS 

It  is  not  too  much  in  recompense  for  the 
deep  ignominy  in  which  I  have  dwelt.  Where 
one  life  heaped  mire,  another  life  will  place  a 
halo.  Speak,  speak  on  ...  speak  on  ... 
(He  continues  to  dream.  The  two  eagles  draw 
near.) 

FIRST  EAGLE 

Ay,  ay,  ay!  Alas  for  this  last  man;  he  is 
dying,  yet  lie  dreams  of  life. 

SECOND  EAGLE 

Not  so  much  that  he  hated  it  as  that  he 
loved  it  so  much. 


THE    VENGEANCE    OF    FELIX 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  FELIX 

BY  JOSE  DE  MEDEIROS  E  ALBUQUERQUE  (1867 — ) 
Member  of  the  Brazilian  Academy  of  Letters 

OLD  Felix  had  followed  his  trade  of  dig 
ger  in  all  the  quarries  that  Rio  de 
Janeiro  possessed.  He  was  a  sort  of 
Hercules  with  huge  limbs,  but  otherwise  stu 
pid  as  a  post.  His  companions  had  nick 
named  him  Hardhead  because  of  his  obstin 
ate  character.  Once  an  idea  had  penetrated 
his  skull  it  would  stick  there  like  a  gimlet 
and  the  devil  himself  couldn't  pull  it  out.  Be 
cause  of  this  trait  there  arose  quarrels,  alter 
cations  on  points  of  the  smallest  significance, 
which  the  man's  acquaintances  would  pur 
posely  bring  up,  knowing  his  evil  humor. 
But  Felix,  despite  his  vigorous  and  sanguine 
constitution,  was  by  no  means  quick  to  an 
ger,  nor  immediately  responsive  to  injury;  on 
the  contrary  he  was  exceedingly  patient  in 
his  vindictiveness.  For  the  longest  time  he 
would  ruminate  upon  his  vengeance,  most 

107 


108  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

astutely,  and  he  would  carry  it  out  at  the 
moment  when  he  believed  himself  perfectly 
secure.  Oh!  His  ruses  were  not  of  very 
great  finesse  and  required  very  little  talent; 
but  by  dint  of  considering  and  reconsidering 
the  case,  by  dint  of  waiting  patiently  for  the 
propitious  opportunity  to  present  itself,  he 
finally  would  play  some  evil  trick  upon  his 
comrades.  So  that  nobody  liked  him. 

Felix  had  married,  but  his  wife  did  not  long 
survive.  Just  long  enough  to  leave  him  a  son 
and  a  daughter,  who  grew  up  knowing  lit 
tle  restraint,  chumming  around  with  all  the 
good-for-nothings  of  the  vicinity,  plaguing 
all  the  neighbors,  who  on  their  part,  were 
not  slow  to  punish  the  rascals.  Thus  several 
years  went  by.  The  son  became  a  notorious 
character,  the  daughter  an  impudent,  cynical 
little  runabout  who,  on  certain  occasions, 
would  fill  their  rickety  abode  with  her  chat 
ter  about  affairs  concerning  the  "man"  of  so- 
and-so  or  such-and-such.  And  thus  things 
were  going  when  the  old  man  took  it  into 
his  head  to  fall  ill.  An  excruciating  rheu 
matism  attacked  both  his  legs,  rendering  him 
incapable  of  moving  about,  and  confining 
him  to  an  old,  lame  armchair  that  was 
balanced  by  a  complicated  arrangement  of 
old  boxes  that  could  never  be  got  to  remain 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  FELIX      109 

steady.  The  illness  became  chronic.  The 
daughter  helped  out  the  finances  of  the 
house  with  her  earnings  as  laundry-woman 
.  .  .  and  perhaps  by  earnings  of  a  different 
nature.  Anyway,  they  got  along.  The  old 
fellow,  willy-nilly,  spent  his  days  invariably 
riveted  to  his  armchair,  groaning  with  pain 
at  the  least  movement,  swearing,  fretting 
and  fuming,  despairing  of  life.  And,  since 
his  daughter  simply  refused  from  the  very 
beginning  to  let  him  have  even  a  drop  of 
brandy,  he  was  perforce  cured  of  his  vice. 

Just  about  this  time  there  happened  to 
them  the  worst  of  all  possible  adventures. 
The  son,  whom  the  father  had  not  seen  for 
several  weeks,  one  fine  day  attacked  a  peace 
ful  citizen  and,  with  a  terrible  knife  thrust  in 
the  stomach,  despatched  him  to  a  better 
world;  as  to  which  event  circumstances 
seemed  so  contrary  that  the  son  allowed 
himself  to  be  arrested. 

The  old  man  was  in  the  habit  of  reading 
his  gazette  religiously,  from  the  first  line  to 
the  last;  thus  he  learned  the  news.  And  it 
was  through  the  same  newspaper  that  he  fol 
lowed  the  trial  and  learned  of  his  son's  con 
viction.  This  made  him  furious,  not  so 
much  because  of  the  sentence  as  because  of 
a  special  circumstance.  The  policeman  who 


110  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

had  arrested  his  son  was — just  think  of 
it! — Bernardo, — yes,  Bernardo,  his  own 
neighbor — the  same  chap  who  would  greet 
him  daily  with  the  ironic  words:  "How  are 
things,  Felix  old  boy?  And  when  will  you 
be  ready  for  a  waltz?" 

Even  on  the  day  of  imprisonment  and  dur 
ing  those  that  followed  BernaVdo  had  per 
mitted  himself  these  witty  remarks. 

Bernardo  was  a  cobra  of  Bahai,  a  preten 
tious  mulatto  whose  enormous  head  of  hair, 
carefully  parted  in  the  middle  into  two  flour 
ishing  masses,  was  kept  so  only  through  the 
services  of  odorous  pomade  that  cost  four 
sous  a  pot.  He  had  been,  in  his  day,  a  dis 
honest  political  henchman,  well-known  for 
his  exploits;  then,  supported  by  the  liberal 
leader  whose  election  he  had  worked  for,  he 
escaped  prison  and  entered  the  police  service. 
At  that  time  police  officers  were  called 
"bats", — a  sobriquet  that  troubled  Bernar 
do  very  little.  And  it  had  been  he —  what 
anger  flashed  in  old  Felix's  eyes  as  he 
thought  of  it! — he,  whose  past  activities 
would  well  bear  examination,  he  who  had 
arrested  Felix's  son! . . . 

From  that  moment  one  preoccupation 
alone  filled  Felix's  hours — vengeance!  This 
hatred  dominated  his  existence  and  became 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  FELIX      111 

the  only  power  that  could  vanquish  the  ever 
growing  misery  of  his  broken-down  body. 
The  mere  thought  that  he  could  not  grow 
well,  while  the  cobra  would  daily  continue 
to  live  in  insolent  impunity,  was  enough  to 
give  him  convulsions  of  rage;  he  would  foam 
at  the  mouth,  gnash  his  teeth  and,  in  that 
obtuse  brain  of  his,  concoct  scheme  upon 
scheme  of  vengeance,  almost  all  of  them  im 
practicable,  for  he  was  chained  to  the  spot  in 
stupid  impotence. 

At  times  he  would  wish  to  call  Bernardo 
and  with  thunderous  violence  pour  torrents 
of  insult  upon  his  head.  But  what  end 
would  that  serve?  Felix's  treacherous, 
cowardous  nature  counselled  him  to  have 
prudence.  So,  on  the  first  days  after  the 
arrest,  when  the  mulatto  would  go  by,  the 
old  man  feigned  slumber.  Then,  in  the  con 
tinuing  uncertainty  as  to  what  method  of 
vengeance  to  pursue,  and  in  order  not  to  let 
his  hatred  betray  itself,  he  spoke  to  the 
policeman  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Nevertheless  there  was  one  thing  that  puz 
zled  him  greatly:  his  daughter  had  said  noth 
ing  to  him  about  the  entire  affair.  Did  she 
know  nothing  about  it?  It  was  almost  im 
possible  that  the  mulatto,  with  his  chatter 
box  habits,  had  not  spoken  of  the  matter. 


112  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

Had  his  daughter  feared  to  shock  him  with 
the  news?  This  was  all  the  less  probable 
since  she  had  never  had  any  particular  love 
for  him.  Scarcely  did  a  day  pass  that  she 
did  not  call  him  a  "good-for-nothing,"  "a 
lazy  lout,"  and  other  similar  tendernesses.  So 
he  breathed  not  a  word,  and  continued  to 
ruminate  upon  his  vengeance. 

Months  rolled  on.  Far  from  getting  bet 
ter  the  illness  increased.  As  soon  as  the 
old  fellow  tried  to  move,  horrible  pains  seized 
him  at  every  joint.  His  daughter  maltreated 
him,  and  at  the  height  of  his  attacks  she 
would  reply  to  his  complaints  that  he'd  do 
better  if  he  left  the  house,  and  she  even 
threatened  to  send  him  to  the  hospital.  It 
was  now  June.  The  weather  was  one  long 
succession  of  heavy  rains;  the  invalid  suf 
fered  atrociously  from  the  cold  and  the  damp, 
and  his  daughter,  disgruntled  at  the  bad 
weather,  which  interfered  with  her  washing, 
lived  in  unbroken  sulkiness.  She  treated  him 
worse  than  a  dog,  and  it  was  truly  with  the 
patience  of  a  dog  that  he  endured  everything, ' 
so  much  did  he  fear  being  sent  away.  A 
plan  of  vengeance  had  arisen  in  his  brain, 
and  slowly,  during  the  months,  ever  since  he 
had  learned  that  his  case  was  incurable,  his 
project  had  absorbed  his  entire  mental  activ- 


THE  VENGEANCE  OP  FELIX      113 

ity, — indeed,  his  whole  existence.  He 
breathed  only  for  his  plan,  for  the  sure,  pro 
pitious  opportunity. 

At  last  it  came,  and  a  terrible  day  it  was. 
At  dusk  his  daughter  had  left,  closing  the 
door,  as  was  her  habit,  and  had  not  returned 
at  night.  The  old  man  was  parched  with 
thirst  and  his  physical  torture  had  doubled. 
He  resolved  upon  quick  action. 

In  the  morning, — it  might  have  been  about 
seven  o'clock — his  daughter  returned,  or 
rather,  rolled  into  the  room,  and  with  her, 
pell-mell  came  "Jane",  Bernardo's  "friend". 
Jane  was  roundly  berating  his  daughter. 
"You  rotten  thing!"  she  cried.  "I'll  show 
you!  Trying  to  take  away  somebody  else's 
man."  And  the  two  women  came  to  blows, 
rousing  the  entire  neighborhood.  They 
tried  at  last  to  separate  the  combatants,  but 
it  would  have  been  easier  to  break  them  to 
bits,  so  fiercely  did  they  struggle  against 
each  other.  There  was  a  whistle;  the  police 
arrived,  and  the  women  were  taken  to  the 
lock-up.  All  this  as  quick  as  a  flash. 

The  old  man  had  not  had  time  to  utter  a 
word.  But  an  extreme  rage,  blind, — an  anger 
such  as  only  savage  beasts  can  know,  over 
powered  him.  What!  His  daughter,  the 


114  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

mistress  of  Bernardo!  This  was  the  last 
straw! 

Towards  noon  the  mulatto  came  back.  He 
had  spent  the  night  away  from  home,  under 
the  pretext  of  a  special  patrol;  he  returned, 
ignorant  of  the  morning's  events.  He  came 
in  smiling,  in  that  measured  walk  of  his, 
waddling  along.  He  approached  Felix  and 
asked  him  the  classic  question:  "Now  then, 
how  goes  it?" 

Felix  did  not  reply  and  merely  made  a  sign 
with  his  hand.  The  policeman  entered. 
When  he  had  come  near,  Felix  said  to  him 
in  a  low  voice  that  he  had  something  very 
serious  to  tell  him.  But  first  of  all  he  insist 
ed  that  Bernardo  go  and  bring  his  large 
knife. 

"Why  that,  Felix?  What  do  you  want  to 
do  with  a  knife?"  asked  the  other. 

The  old  man  smiled  mysteriously.  "Quick, 
my  boy,  I'll  tell  you  afterwards,  and  you'll 
see  that  my  story  will  be  worth  the  trouble." 

"All  right,  I'll  get  it,"  replied  the  officer. 
And  a  minute  later  he  was  back  with  the 
knife,  which  he  gave  to  the  invalid. 

"Now,"  continued  the  latter,  "go  and  close 
the  door,  so  that  nobody  will  hear.  Close  it 
well,  and  turn  the  key." 

Bernardo  felt  some  mistrust  at  all  this 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  FELIX      115 

mystery,  but  knowing  for  certain  that  the 
helpless  old  man  could  do  him  no  harm,  he 
obeyed,  curiously  waiting  to  learn  what  the 
other  was  up  to. 

"So,  you  want  to  tell  me  now? — Not  yet! 
Here,  first  put  this  watch  in  your  pocket." 
And  the  old  man  drew  from  his  pocket  an 
ancient  nickel  watch  which  he  gave  to  the 
cobra. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  this,  Felix?"  asked 
the  mulatto. 

"Keep  it,  I  tell  you,"  was  the  reply. 

"The  old  duffer  is  crazy  for  sure,"  thought 
Bernardo,  nevertheless  doing  as  he  was  told. 
Then,  seeing  in  what  manner  the  invalid  had 
grasped  the  knife  he  discreetly  withdrew  a 
few  paces. 

Well,  almost  immediately  Felix  made  a 
sudden  movement  that  caused  his  pain  to  in 
crease  anew,  and  he  began  to  groan,  to  utter 
most  terrible  cries,  almost  shrieks. 

"I  am  dying!    I  am  dying!" 

Bernardo  had  never  heard  such  awful 
groaning;  his  mistrust  grew,  and,  seeing  that 
the  old  man  still  clutched  the  knife,  he 
thought  the  invalid  would  kill  him  if  he 
should  attempt  to  approach.  He  therefore 
again  stepped  back  a  few  paces  and  awaited 
developments,  persuaded  that  he  had  a  luna- 


116  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

tic  in  front  of  him.  The  groaning  became 
louder  and  louder,  so  that  it  was  easily  to  be 
heard  outside.  Finally,  the  cabra,  tired  of 
waiting,  said,  'Til  be  back  right  away,  Felix." 
And  he  was  about  to  leave. 

Brusquely,  the  old  man  uncovered  his  own 
breast,  and  with  a  rapid  movement,  right 
over  the  heart,  he  thrust  in  the  blade  with  all 
his  might,  up  to  the  hilt.  Not  a  drop  of 
blood  spurted  out,  the  thick  blade  obstructing 
the  wound.  His  face  convulsed  with  an  ex 
pression  of  excruciating  torment;  his  hang 
ing  arms  grew  rigid. 

The  officer  rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
called  for  help  and  returned  to  pull  the  knife 
from  the  wound,  and  to  see  whether  it  was 
yet  possible  to  save  the  unfortunate  man. 
Men  and  women,  wildly  excited,  ran  up  to 
the  house  crying  loudly,  and,  seeing  this  man 
with  a  long  knife  whence  the  blood  was  drip 
ping,  seeing  also  the  pierced  breast  of  old 
Felix,  the  whole  populace  rushed  upon  Ber 
nardo,  disarmed  him,  crying  "Kill  him!  Kill 
him!"  Bernardo  was  punched  and  kicked 
and  cudgelled  from  one  infuriated  person  to 
the  other  in  the  crowd,  and  led  to  the  police- 
station  by  a  multitude  which  every  moment 
waxed  greater  and  more  threatening. 

Several  months  later  the  trial  came  to  an 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  FELIX       117 

end.  Bernardo  was  sentenced  to  hard  labor 
for  life.  Nobody  would  believe  his  story. 
The  proofs  were  overwhelming.  Had  he  not 
been  caught  red-handed?  The  presence  of 
the  nickel- watch  in  his  pocket  indicated  suf 
ficiently  that  the  motive  of  the  crime  was 
robbery.  The  vengeance  of  old  Felix  had 
been  well  calculated:  the  result  was  there. 
The  old  man  had  conquered. 


THE   PIGEONS 


THE  PIGEONS 

BY  COELHO  NETTO 
Member  Brazilian  Academy  of  Letters 

When  the  pigeons  leave,  misfortune  follows. 
— Indian  superstition. 

WHEN  Joanna  appeared  at  the  door 
yawning,  fatigued  after  the  long 
sleepless  night  spent  at  her  son's 
bedside,  Triburcio,  on  the  terrace,  leaning 
against  his  spade,  was  watching  the  pigeon- 
house  closely. 

The  sun  was  already  setting  and  gilded  the 
moist  leaves.  At  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  tur 
tie-doves  and  starlings  were  circling  in  the 
air,  making  a  joyous  noise  above  the  high 
branches  of  the  neighboring  trees. 

The  caboclo1  Indian  did  not  remove  his 
eyes  from  the  pigeon-house.  The  wrinkles 
on  his  forehead  bore  witness  to  an  inner 
struggle — ,  grave  thoughts  which  were 

i  Caboclo  signifies  copper-colored.  Indigenous 
tribes  of  Brazil  are  so  called  from  the  color  of  their 
skin. 

121 


122  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

clouding  his  spirit.  A  pigeon  took  to  flight, 
then  another,  and  still  another;  he  turned  his 
head,  following  them  with  his  gaze  until  they 
were  out  of  sight,  and  then  returned  to  his 
melancholy  contemplation. 

The  birds  came  and  went,  entered  the 
pigeon-house  and  left  in  agitated  manner, 
cooing  loudly;  they  circled  above  the  dwel- 
ing,  sought  the  trees,  alighted  on  the  thatch 
of  the  cabin,  descended  to  earth  in  spiral 
flight. 

Some  seemed  to  be  getting  their  bearings, 
to  seek  a  route:  they  gazed  across  the  clear 
stretches  of  space  and  penetrated  to  the  dis 
tant  horizons.  Others  would  fly  off,  describ 
ing  vast  circles,  and  would  return  to  the 
pigeon-house.  Then  all  would  come  to 
gether  as  if  for  a  discussion,  to  plan  their  de 
parture. 

Some,  u  decided,  opened  their  wings  as  if 
about  to  fly  away,  but  soon  would  close  them 
again.  Still  others  would  dart  off,  only  to 
come  back  aimlessly,  and  the  noise  increased 
to  a  hubbub  of  hurried  leaving. 

The  Indian  gazed  fixedly.  Well  he  knew 
that  the  life  of  his  little  son  was  at  stake, 
and  depended  upon  the  decision  of  the  birds. 
"When  the  pigeons  leave,  misfortune  quickly 
follows." 


THE   PIGEONS  123 

Joanna  noticed  Ms  preoccupation.  "What 
is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

The  cabodo  scratched  his  head  and  made 
no  reply.  The  woman  insisted.  "What  is 
the  trouble,  Tiburcio?" 

"The  pigeons  have  taken  a  whim  into  their 
heads,  Joanna." 

"And  you  are  lost  in  the  contemplation  of 
it?  I  have  not  cared  to  speak,  but  I  know 
well  the  meaning  of  what  I  see." 

The  cabodo  slung  the  spade  across  his 
shoulder  and  walked  slowly  up  the  road  that 
led  to  the  plantation,  through  the  wet  hay 
which  exhaled  a  piquant  odor. 

Some  hens  were  clucking,  hidden  in  the 
high  grass,  and  a  little  ribbon  of  water  which 
flowed  gently  along  sparkled  here  and  there 
through  the  openings  in  the  brushwood. 

Tiburcio,  head  bowed,  spade  on  his  shoul 
der,  could  not  shake  off  the  deep  impression 
that  had  been  made  upon  him  by  the  sudden 
migration  of  the  birds. 

It  was  the  fatal  sign. 

To  be  sure,  he  had  heard  the  owl's  screech 
for  many  and  many  a  night;  but  he  had  seen 
no  cause  for  fear  in  this:  everything  was 
going  along  nicely;  their  little  son  was  in 
good  health  and  they,  too,  knew  no  illness. 
But  now  the  warning  of  the  evil  omen  was 


124  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

confirmed.  The  pigeons  which  he  had  him 
self  brought  up  were  flying  away.  They  were 
leaving,  thus  forecasting  the  arrival  of  death. 

He  turned  back;  he  raised  his  eyes.  There 
were  the  birds  high  above,  still  circling  about, 
and  Joanna  was  at  the  threshold  of  the 
cabin,  leaning  against  the  jamb,  her  arms 
crossed,  her  head  hanging.  The  poor  woman 
was  surely  weeping. 

Within  him  he  felt  a  mute  explosion  of 
hatred  and  revolt  against  the  ungrateful 
birds.  Never  had  he  had  the  courage  to  kill 
a  single  one  of  them.  He  lived  only  for  the 
purpose  of  keeping  the  pigeon-house  in  or 
der,  thinking  only  of  making  it  larger  so 
that  it  might  accommodate  more  pairs.  And 
the  little  child,  was  it  not  he  who  crushed 
the  millet  for  the  fledglings,  who  climbed  the 
mango-tree,  going  from  branch  to  branch  to 
see  whether  there  wasn't  some  crack  through 
which  the  rain  came  in?  Who  knows?  Per 
haps  the  pigeons  were  leaving  their  dwelling 
because  they  no  longer  saw  him? 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  continued 
on  his  way.  As  he  crossed  the  dam  his  heart 
palpitated  wildly.  He  stopped.  The  water, 
held  back  in  its  course,  threw  back  a  motion 
less  reflection  of  him.  But  although  he 
looked  down  upon  it  he  saw  not  his  image; 


THE   PIGEONS  125 

his  thoughts  were  entirely  with  the  little 
child  who,  burning  with  fever,  was  in  de 
lirium. 

He  chose  a  side  path.  The  millet  stems 
were  so  high  that  he  disappeared  within  them 
with  a  crumpling  of  dry  leaves.  The  soft 
ant-hills  which  it  was  his  daily  custom  to 
level  off  failed  to  attract  his  attention.  He 
walked  straight  on.  Parrots  flew  by,  chat 
tering,  with  their  green  wings  shining  in  the 
sun,  and  huge  grasshoppers  were  jumping  in 
the  leaves. 

He  came  upon  a  straw  hut, — here  the  child 
was  wont  to  play  with  its  toys; — there  was 
even  now  a  boot  of  wild  sugar-cane.  But  al 
ready  the  grass  was  beginning  to  invade  the 
abandoned  shelter.  .  . .  For  a  month  the  little 
child  had  not  visited  the  place.  When  the 
father  came  to  the  field  of  manioc  he  sat 
down,  bent  almost  in  two.  The  spade 
weighed  upon  his  shoulders  like  a  burden. 
The  strength  had  oozed  out  of  his  legs.  His 
whole  body  was  broken  with  fatigue,  as  if  at 
the  end  of  a  long  journey.  He  sat  down  upon 
a  hillock  and  began  to  trace  lines  upon  the 
earth,  with  a  distraught  air. 

At  times  it  seemed  as  if  he  heard  the  echo 
of  his  wife's  voice.  He  would  raise  his  head 
and  strain  his  ears  to  catch  the  sound.  But 


126  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

only  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  stirred  by  the 
breeze  and  the  chirping  of  the  insects  in  the 
sun  came  to  him.  All  earth  seemed  to  per 
spire.  A  diaphanous  vapor  rose  tremblingly 
from  the  hot  soil;  the  leaves  hung  languidly, 
and  through  the  intense  blueness  of  the  sky 
passed  some  urubus*  in  search  of  distant  lodg 
ings. 

Suddenly  a  pigeon  winged  through  the  air, 
then  another,  and  still  another.  They  were 
leaving  .  .  .  they  were  leaving!  ...  A  beating 
of  wings, — more  on  the  way.  They  would 
never  return,  never!  They  were  fleeing  in 
horror,  feeling  the  approach  of  death. 

For  a  long  time  he  gazed  about  him,  but 
could  see  only  the  rich  verdure  waving  to 
the  wind  in  the  warm  transparency  of  the 
atmosphere.  He  should  have  taken  his 
child  to  town  as  soon  as  the  illness  had  ap 
peared.  But  who  could  have  foretold  this? 
He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  and  they  lin 
gered  upon  the  luminous  azure;  then  came 
another  pigeon.  He  shook  his  head  and, 
striking  his  fist  against  his  thigh,  slung 
his  spade  back  upon  his  shoulder  and  turned 
in  the  direction  of  his  house. 

When  Joanna  saw  him  on  the  terrace  she 
appeared  to  divine  his  thoughts. 

*Urubu:  the  black  vulture  of  South  America. 


THE   PIGEONS  127 

"It  is  well  you  returned,  my  dear!  All  alone 
here  I  am  at  a  loss  as  to  what  to  do." 

He  looked  at  the  pigeon-house,  saw  that 
it  was  deserted,  and  ominously  silent.  As 
evening  fell  Tiburcio  sat  down  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  cabin  and  began  to  smoke, 
waiting  for  the  pigeons.  The  grasshoppers 
were  shrillling;  all  the  birds  who  had  their 
nests  in  the  tree  nearby  retired  and,  as  it 
was  still  light,  they  lingered  in  the  branches 
to  trill  their  good-night  cadences. 

The  sky  grew  pale.  The  landscape  was 
veiled  in  a  light  mist.  The  evening  breeze 
scattered  the  gentle  odor  of  lilies.  Not  very 
far  off  a  dog  barked  now  and  then.  At  times  a 
grave  lowing  saddened  the  silence.  Tiburcio 
did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  the  pigeon- 
house,  unless  it  was  to  pierce  the  shadows 
and  try  to  discover  in  the  distance  one  of  the 
birds.  Perhaps  some  of  them  would  return. 

Where  could  they  find  a  better  shelter? 
The  forest  was  full  of  dangers  and  domestic 
pigeons  could  scarcely  live  in  the  brushwood. 
What  other  pigeon-roost  could  have  attract 
ed  them?  If  he  had  but  followed  the  line  of 
their  flight .  .  .  Some  had  taken  the  direction 
of  the  fields,  others  had  flown  towards  the 
mountains,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  any  re 
turning. 


128  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

It  was  now  quite  dark.  Joanna  lighted  a 
candle.  Already  the  frogs  were  croaking  in 
the  marshes.  A  star  shone  in  the  sky.  Ti- 
burcio  fixed  his  gaze  upon  it  and  began  to 
pray  in  low  tones.  The  silence  was  scarcely 
broken  by  the  murmuring  of  the  water  as  It 
ran  and  broke  over  the  stones  in  the  ravine 
not  far  away,  just  behind  the  cabin. 

Tiburcio  sighed,  arose,  leaned  against  the 
jamb  and  lacked  courage  to  go  inside.  Joanna 
came  near  the  door. 

"And  now?" 

"The  same  thing,"  he  replied. 

He  stepped  down,  called  her,  and  together 
they  went  towards  the  terrace.  Near  the 
mango-tree,  directly  under  the  pigeon-house, 
they  stopped,  and  the  Indian,  as  if  in  fear  of 
being  heard  by  the  child,  asked  softly, 
"Joanna,  don't  you  know  any  prayers  for 
this?"  And  he  pointed  to  the  deserted 
pigeon-roost. 

"Only  Lina  knows,"  she  answered. 

"She  can  pronounce  the  proper  spells?" 

"So  they  say." 

Tiburcio  stood  as  if  in  a  dream.  Sudden 
ly,  in  a  firm  voice,  he  announced,  "I  am  going 
to  her." 

"Now?" 


THE   PIGEONS  129 

"Certainly!  .  .  .  Haven't  you  just  said  that 
she  was  a  sorceress?" 

"I  have  never  seen  it,  Tiburcio.  .  .  .  That's 
what  people  say." 

"But  you?" 

"I?  No.  And  I  am  afraid  that  it  is  too 
late.  You  have  seen  your  self  how  far  gone 
he  is!  He  is  no  longer  interested  in  any 
thing.  I  move  about,  I  speak,  I  go  here  and 
there,  I  come  back  again  into  the  room,— 
but  it  is  all  nothing  to  him.  Ah!  God  in 
heaven!" 

Her  voice  died  out.  Suddenly  she  melted 
into  tears.  Tiburcio  withdrew  and  com 
menced  to  pace  slowly  up  and  down  the  ter 
race.  The  white  moon  was  rising.  The 
fields  became  less  obscure  and,  in  the  light, 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  very  black, 
stretched  across  the  ground. 

"Patience,  dear  woman,  patience!" 

The  strident  crickets  were  chirping.  The 
caboclo  murmured,  "Yes,  I  know  ..." 

Of  a  sudden  Joanna  shuddered.  Quivering 
she  turned  towards  the  cabin,  from  whose 
wide  door  shone  a  ray  of  livid  light;  for  a 
moment  her  astonished  gaze  lingered  and 
then,  with  a  bound  she  was  gone. 

Tiburcio,  motionless,  without  understand 
ing  what  his  wife  had  just  done,  quietly 


130  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

awaited  her  return,  when  a  piercing  cry  rang 
out.  The  caboclo  rushed  to  the  cabin  and 
made  for  the  room  where  the  candle  was 
burning.  The  woman,  on  her  knees  before 
the  little  bed,  leaning  over  the  child,  was  sob 
bing  desperately. 

"What  has  happened,  Joanna?" 
She  gave  a  hoarse  cry  and  threw  her  arms 
across  the  corpse  of  her  son. 
"Look!    It's  all  over!" 
She  bent  down,  her  face  brushed  a  cheek 
that  was  burning;  her  trembling  hands  felt  a 
little  body  that  was  still  aflame.  She  touched 
the  sunken  chest,   where  the  ribs  showed 
through  like  laths,  and  the  hollow  abdomen. 
"Listen  to  his  heart,  Tiburcio!" 
He  could  only  reply,  "It  is  all  over!" 
The  mother  arose  with  a  leap,  disfigured, 
her  hair  dishevelled,  her  eyes  sparkling.    She 
tried  to  speak,  stretched  her  hands  out  to  her 
husband,  but  fell  limp  upon  a  basket  and 
and,  bowed  down,  bathed  in  tears,  she  began 
to  repeat  the  name  of  her  son  with  an  infinite 
tenderness  that  was  rent  by  sobs. 

"My  Luiz!  My  little  Luiz!  But  a  moment 
ago  living,  oh  blessed  Virgin!" 

Tiburcio  turned  away  and  in  the  room,  be 
fore  the  table,  he  stopped,  his  eyes  wander 
ing,  his  lips  trembling,  the  tears  rolling  in  big 


THE   PIGEONS  131 

drops  down  his  bony  face.  Joanna  left  the 
chamber,  wavering  as  if  drunk,  and  seeing 
him,  threw  herself  into  his  arms ;  he  held  her 
without  uttering  a  word,  and  they  stood  thus 
in  embrace  for  a  long  time,  in  the  dark,  nar 
row  room  where  the  crickets  were  chirping. 

Joanna  went  back  to  the  chamber.  Ti- 
burcio  remained  leaning  against  the  table,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  candle  which  flickered 
in  the  breeze.  Slowly  the  light  of  the  moon 
came  in,  white,  climbing  upon  the  walls.  He 
arose  with  a  sigh,  went  to  the  door,  sat  down 
upon  the  threshold,  lighted  his  pipe  and 
looked  leisurely  out  upon  the  country,  which 
was  growing  brighter  beneath  the  moon. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  heard  the 
cooing  of  pigeons.  Above,  the  stars  were 
shining,  the  tree  tops  glittered  in  the  moon 
light.  Could  it  be  an  illusion? 

Motionless,  he  concentrated  his  attention. 
The  cooing  continued.  He  arose  impetuous 
ly,  walked  straight  to  the  pigeon-roost  and 
leaned  against  the  trunk  of  the  mango-tree. 

"Could  it  be  the  pigeons  who  were  return 
ing  after  the  passing  of  death?"  he  began  to 
mutter  in  fury,  replying  to  his  thoughts. 
"Now  it's  too  late!  A  curse  upon  them!" 

A  beating  of  wings,  a  tender  cooing,  and 
little  cries  came  from  the  pigeon-house. 


132  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

There  was  no  doubt  now.  He  went  forward 
and,  from  the  middle  of  the  terrace  watched 
the  pigeon-house, walking  resolutely  towards 
the  cabin. 

Joanna  was  sobbing  hopelessly.  He  took 
the  candle,  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  seeing 
the  axe  in  a  corner  he  seized  it,  still  mutter 
ing.  He  then  turned  back  to  the  terrace 
and,  having  reached  the  mango-tree,  rolled 
up  the  sleeves  of  his  coarse  shirt  so  that  he 
might  swing  the  axe. 

At  the  first  blow  against  the  post  which 
supported  the  pigeon-house  the  birds  grew 
still.  Tiburcio  redoubled  his  efforts.  A  crack 
now  weakened  the  structure,  but  still  it  re 
sisted.  He  leaned  the  axe  against  the  trunk 
and,  grasping  the  branches,  raised  himself 
to  the  top  of  the  tree.  Prom  there  he  sup 
ported  himself  between  two  boughs  and  gave 
the  large  box  a  furious  kick.  The  pigeon- 
roost  fell  shattered  to  the  ground. 

Two  pigeons  flew  off  in  great  fright,  dazed. 
Uncertain  of  their  direction  in  the  clearness 
of  the  night,  they  lit  upon  the  roof  of  the 
hut. 

The  caboclo  slid  down  lightly  along  the 
trunk  and  saw  two  little  bodies  who  were 
whining,  staggering,  dragging  themselves 
along.  They  were  two  little  pigeons.  He 


THE   PIGEONS  133 

beixt  over  them,  took  them  in  his  hands  and 
began  to  examine  them.  They  were  ugly, 
still  without  wings,  having  only  a  thin  down 
to  cover  the  muscles  of  their  soft,  wrinkled 
bodies.  The  Indian  turned  them  over  this 
way  and  that  in  his  shrivelled  hands.  He 
felt  their  fragile  bones,  and  the  little  things 
struggled  to  fly  away,  moving  the  stumps  of 
their  wings;  they  stretched  out  their  necks 
and  whined. 

Gnashing  his  teeth,  Tiburcio  squeezed 
the  fledglings  and  crushed  them.  Their  ten 
der  bones  cracked  like  bits  of  wood.  The 
blood  gushed  forth  and  trickled,  warm, 
through  the  tightened  fingers  of  the  man. 

Under  the  impulse  of  his  fury  he  threw 
them  to  the  ground;  they  flattened  out,  soft 
as  rotten  fruit.  And  the  caboclo,  growling  to 
himself,  trampled  upon  them.  The  parent- 
birds  were  cooing  dolorously  upon  the 
thatched  roof,  flying  hither  and  thither. 

Joanna,  embracing  her  dead  child,  was  still 
sobbing  when  Tiburcio  entered  the  chamber. 
He  stopped  before  the  little  bed,  and  looked 
down.  Of  a  sudden  the  woman  shook,  arose 
with  a  start,  seized  her  husband's  arm,  her 
eyes  distended  and  her  mouth  wide  open,  her 
head  bending  over  as  if  to  hear  voices,  far 
away  sounds. 


134  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

"What  is  it,  Joanna?  What  is  the  matter 
with  you?" 

In  terror  she  stammered  reply.  "The 
pigeons,  dear  husband.  Don't  you  hear 
them?" 

It  was  their  sad  cooing  that  came  from 
the  roof  of  the  house.  "They  are  returning! 
Who  knows?  He  is  yet  warm!"  she  cried. 

And  in  the  heart  of  the  woman  arose  a 
great  hope. 

Tiburcio  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Now  it's  their  turn  to  mourn!"  he  an 
swered.  "They  are  sobbing,  like  us.  It's  a 
pair  that  remained  behind  because  of  the  lit 
tle  ones.  I  dashed  the  pigeon-house  to  earth, 
I  have  killed  the  fledglings.  See!" 

And  he  showed  his  bloody  hands. 

•'They  flew  away;  they're  on  the  house. 
Do  you  want  to  see?" 

He  went  out;  she  followed.  They  walked 
to  the  terrace.  Tiburcio  pointed  to  the  ruined 
pigeon-house.  Then  he  grasped  the  crushed 
bodies  of  the  little  birds.  "Look!" 

Without  breathing  a  word  Joanna  looked 
on.  In  her  horror  she  had  stopped  weeping. 
She  gazed  upon  her  husband,  whose  burning 
eyes  flashed  fire.  He  threw  the  first  little 
pigeon  upon  the  roof  bellowing,  "  'T  is  well!" 

He  threw  the  second. 


THE   PIGEONS  135 

"  'T  is  well !"  he  repeated. 

The  pigeons,  frightened,  flew  off  into  the 
dark  foliage. 

"  'T  is  well,"  he  said  once  more. 

Joanna,  dumb,  terrified,  could  not  remove 
her  eyes  from  her  husband,  who  was  now 
crying  with  sobs,  his  opened  hands  stained 
with  blood. 

"Come,  dear  husband.  It  was  the  will  of 
God.  Our  little  son  is  in  heaven!"  And 
slowly  she  heartened  him.  They  entered 
their  cabin  and,  before  the  pallet  of  the  dead 
child,  the  tears  gushed  from  their  eyes,  while, 
on  the  roof  above,  the  pigeons,  who  had  re 
turned,  were  cooing  dolorously, 


AUNT    ZEZE'S    TEARS 


AUNT  ZEZE'S  TEARS 

BY  CARMEN  DOLORES 
(Emilia  Moncorva  Bandeira  de  Mello,  1852 — 1910) 

PALE  and  thin,  for  eighteen  years  she 
had  lived  with  her  youngest  sister,  who 
had  married  very  early  and  now  pos 
sessed  five  children:  two  young  ladies  of 
marriageable  age,  a  third  still  in  short 
dresses,  and  two  little  boys. 

Maria- Jose,  whose  nickname  was  Zeze, 
had  never  been  beautiful  or  winning.  Upon 
her  father's  death  it  was  thought  best  that 
she  should  go  to  live  with  her  sister  Engra- 
cigna's  family.  Here  she  led  a  montonous 
existence,  helping  to  bring  up  her  nephews 
and  nieces,  who  were  born  in  that  young 
and  happy  household  with  a  regularity  that 
brooked  small  intervals  between  the  births. 

A  long,  pointed  nose  disfigured  her  face, 
and  her  lips,  extremely  thin,  looked  like  a 
pale  crack.  Her  thoughtful  gaze  alone  pos 
sessed  a  certain  melancholy  attractiveness. 
139 


140  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

But  even  here,  her  eyes,  protruding  too  far 
for  the  harmony  of  the  lines  upon  her  face 
seemed  always  to  be  red,  and  her  brows  nar 
row  and  sparse. 

Of  late,  an  intricate  network  of  wrinkles 
as  fine  as  hairs,  had  formed  at  the  cor 
ner  of  her  eyes.  Prom  her  nose,  likewise, 
two  furrows  ran  along  the  transparent  deli 
cacy  of  her  skin  and  reached  either  side  of 
her  mouth.  When  she  smiled,  these  wrin 
kles  would  cover  her  countenance  with  a 
mask  of  premature  age,  and  threatened  soon 
to  disfigure  her  entirely.  And  yet,  from  habit, 
and  through  passive  obedience  to  routine, 
Maria-Jose  continued  to  dress  like  a  young 
girl  of  eighteen,  in  brightly  colored  gowns, 
thin  waists  and  white  hats  that  ill  became  her 
frail  and  oldish  face. 

She  would  remain  for  a  long  time  in  pain 
ful  indecision  when  it  was  a  matter  of  pick 
ing  out  some  piece  of  goods  that  was  of  too 
bright  a  red  or  blue, — as  if  instinctively  she 
understood  the  disharmony  of  these  hues 
with  her  age,  whose  rapid  oncoming  they 
moreover  placed  in  all  the  more  noticeable 
contrast.  And  at  such  times  Engracigna 
and  her  daughters  would  say  to  her  with  a 
vehemence  whose  effect  they  little  guessed, 
"Why,  Z<§ze"!  Buy  something  and  be  done 


AUNT  ZEZE'S  TEARS  141 

with  it! ...  How  silly!  Do  you  want  to  dress 
like  a  widow?  What  a  notion!" 

And  at  bottom  they  meant  it. 

None  of  them  saw  Maria-Jose  as  she  real 
ly  was.  Living  with  her  day  by  day  had  served 
to  efface  the  actual  appearance  of  the  faded 
old  maid.  For,  in  the  minds  of  the  mother 
and  her  daughters,  who  were  moreover  of  a 
frivolous  and  indifferent  sort,  Z£ze  had 
grown  to  be  the  type,  very  vague,  to  be  sure, 
but  the  eternal  type  of  young  girl  of  mar- 
riagable  years  who  always  should  be  well 
dressed  and  smiling. 

When  she  would  be  out  walking  with  her 
nieces,  of  sixteen  and  seventeen  years,  who 
wore  the  same  clothes  as  she  herself  did,  but 
whose  graceful  and  lively  charm  became 
their  gay  colors  of  youth  so  well,  Zeze's  in 
telligence  saw  only  too  plainly  the  contrast 
between  her  and  them;  she  would  hold  aloof 
from  the  laughing  set,  morose,  wounded,  as 
if  oppressed  by  an  unspeakable  shame. 

Ah!  Who  can  depict  the  secret  chagrin  of 
an  old  maid  who  sees  pass  by  in  useless 
monotony  her  dark,  loveless,  despairing 
days,  without  hope  even  of  some  event  of 
personal  interest,  while  about  her  moves  the 
busy  whirl  of  happier  creatures  whose  life 
has  but  one  goal,  who  feel  emotions  and  ten- 


142  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

dernesses,  and  who  look  upon  her  simply  as 
an  obscure  accessory  in  the  household's  af 
fairs!  They  all  loved  her,  of  course,  but  not 
one  of  them  suspected  that  she,  too,  could 
cherish  those  aspirations  that  are  common 
to  all  human  beings. 

Her  self-denial  seemed  to  be  a  most  na 
tural  thing;  indeed,  they  hardly  considered 
her  in  the  light  of  a  living  person;  she  was  no 
longer  of  any  consequence. 

This  was  an  attitude  that  satisfied  the  gen 
eral  egotism  of  the  family,  and  to  which  they 
all  had  grown  accustomed,  never  suspecting 
the  grievous  aspect  of  her  sacrifice  which 
was  hidden  by  a  sentiment  of  proud  dignity. 

So,  when  they  would  go  to  the  theatre, 
and  the  box  held  only  five — Engracigna,  her 
husband,  Pabio,  and  the  three  young  ladies, 
— Maria-Jose  knew  beforehand  that  her  sis 
ter,  snugly  wrapped  in  her  opera-cloak, 
would  come  to  her  and  say  gently,  in  that 
purring  voice  of  hers:  "You'll  stay  at  home 
with  the  children  tonight,  won't  you,  Zeze? 
Little  Paul  isn't  very  well,  and  I  wouldn't 
think  of  leaving  him  with  anybody  else  ..." 

And  she  would  remain  behind,  without 
betraying  the  revolt  within  her  which,  upon 
each  occasion  of  these  evidences  of  selfish- 


AUNT  ZEZE'S  TEARS  143 

ness,  would  make  the  anemic  blood  in  her 
veins  tremble  with  agitation. 

Alone  in  the  dining-room  she  would  ply 
her  needle  mechanically,  while  her  nephews 
would  amuse  themselves  with  the  toys  scat 
tered  upon  the  table, — colored  pictures  and 
lead  soldiers.  Every  other  moment  they 
would  call  her. 

"Aunt  Zeze,  look  at  George  pinching  me!" 
"I  am  not!  Paul  hit  me  first!  ..." 
And  the  good  aunt  would  quiet  them. 
Then,  after  both  had  been  put  to  sleep  in 
their  little  twin  beds,  she  would  rest  her  el 
bows  upon  the  window-sill  of  her  gloomy 
old-maid's  room,  and  placing  both  hands  be 
neath  her  sharp  chin,  her  gaze  directed  to 
wards  heaven,  she  would  lose  herself  in  con 
templation  of  the  stars  that  shone  in  the  lim 
pid  sky,  less  lonely,  surely,  than  she  upon 
earth.  In  vain  did  her  eyes  seek  in  the  eyes 
of  another  that  expression  of  sympathy  and 
tenderness  which  alone  would  console  her  .  . 
The  truth  is  that  Maria-Jose  was  suffering 
from  the  disappointment  of  unrequited  pas 
sion.  She  had  fallen  in  love  with  Monjardin, 
a  poet  and  great  friend  of  her  brother-in- 
law,  Fabio.  Monjardin  came  to  the  house 
every  Sunday. 

Older  than  she,  almost  forty,  but  having 


144  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

preserved  all  the  attractiveness  of  youth,- 
black  moustache,  a  vigorous,  yet  graceful 
figure,  eyes  still  bright,  charming  and  wide 
awake, — Monjardin,  without  knowing  it,  had 
conquered  Zeze. 

This  had  come  about  in  a  rather  curious 
manner.  Finding  the  conversation  of  Pa- 
bio's  wife  and  daughters  too  commonplace, 
Monjardin,  when  he  would  recite  some  of  his 
poems  or  tell  some  story  connected  with  his 
literary  life,  preferred  to  address  Maria-Jose, 
whom  he  saw  to  be  of  a  serious  and  impres 
sive  nature. 

"Let's  have  another  poem,  please,  Mr. 
Monjardin!"  she  would  ask  in  supplicating 
tone.  "For  instance,  that  one  you  call  'Re 
grets.'  You  know?" 

And  then  he  would  describe  in  his  verse 
the  grief  of  a  heart,  disillusioned  and  broken 
by  the  cruelties  of  fate,  that  evoked  in  vain 
the  remembrance  of  yesterday's  lost  loves, 
vanished  in  the  mists  of  eternal  despair. 

He  recited  these  bitter  griefs  in  a  strong, 
healthy  man's  voice,  erect  in  the  center  of 
the  parlor,  looking  mechanically,  distracted 
ly  at  Maria-Jose  with  his  dreamy  eyes;  the 
concentrated  effort  of  his  memory  brought 
to  his  face  an  involuntary  immobility  which 


AUNT  ZEZE'S  TEARS  145 

Maria-Jos6,  most  deliciously  touched,  drank 
in. 

The  poet  had  announced  that  he  had  writ 
ten  a  poem  which  he  would  recite  at  Z£z6's 
anniversary  dinner.  The  date  for  this  was 
but  a  few  days  distant,  and  ever  since  the 
poet's  announcement  the  whole  family  had 
taken  to  teasing  the  old  maid,  christening 
her  "the  muse  of  inspiration,"  and  asking  her 
when  the  wedding  would  take  place  .  . . 

She  smiled  ingenuously;  at  such  times  her 
face  would  even  take  on  an  air  of  unusual 
happiness;  her  features  grew  animated,  less 
wrinkled  and  more  firm. 

On  the  day  of  the  celebration  Maria-Jose 
came  out  of  her  room  radiant  with  hope.  At 
the  belt  of  her  white  dress  bloomed  a  rose; 
a  little  blood,  set  pulsing  by  her  agitated 
heart,  brought  a  feeble  color  to  her  marble 
cheeks,  from  which  now  protruded  her  long 
nose  in  a  manner  less  displeasing  than  usual. 

"See,  mamma,"  remarked  one  of  the 
nieces,  "doesn't  Zeze  look  like  a  young  girl 
today?" 

They  dined  amidst  merry  chatter.  Seated 
directly  across  from  Monjardin,  Maria- Jos6, 
hiding  her  glances  behind  the  fruit-bowls 
that  covered  the  table,  looked  at  him  furtively 
without  surfeit.  Her  poor  heart  beat  as  if 


146  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

it  would  burst,  waiting  in  agonized  suspense 
for  the  poem  in  which  the  poet,  without 
doubt,  was  to  declare  his  intimate  feelings 
for  her.  Monjardin  had  already  pointed  to 
his  pocket  as  a  token  that  he  had  the  verses 
with  him,  and  Zeze  had  trembled  with  grati 
fication  as  she  bashfully  lowered  her  long 
face. 

Champagne  sparkled  in  the  glasses  and 
toasts  were  given.  Several  guests  of  dis 
tinction  spoke  first,  then  followed  the  hosts 
and  their  children, — frolicsome  little  things. 
Finally  Monjardin  arose  and  unfolded  a 
manuscript,  asking  permission  to  declaim  the 
verses  which  he  had  composed  in  honor  of 
Maria-Jose,  the  central  figure  of  the  occa 
sion.  The  guests  greeted  his  remarks  with 
noisy  and  enthusiastic  approbation. 

"Hear!  Hear!" 

Engracigna  and  her  daughters  leaned  over 
and  cast  malicious  glances  in  the  direction 
of  Maria-Jose,  but  she  was  paying  no  atten 
tion  to  them.  Her  ears  were  buzzing;  it 
seemed  that  everything  was  turning  round. 

Monjardin,  the  center  of  all  eyes,  made 
pompous  preparation;  he  pulled  down  his 
vest,  arranged  his  sleeves  and,  in  sonorous, 
cadenced  vocie,  began  to  recite  his  alexan 
drines,  scanning  the  lines  impeccably. 


AUNT  ZEZE'S  TEARS  147 

His  poem  opened  with  a  eulogy  of  the  in 
effable  virtue,  compounded  of  self-abnega 
tion  and  chastity,  that  distinguished  the  an 
gelic  creature  who,  with  her  white  tutelary 
wings,  watched  over  the  happiness  of  his 
dear  friend's  love  nest.  He  then  recalled 
that  the  date  of  this  day  commemorated  the 
happy  birth  of  a  being  of  immaculate  purity, 
Maria-Jose,  a  veritable  saint  who  had  re 
nounced  all  her  own  aspirations  so  that  she 
might  consecrate  herself  entirely  to  the 
duties  of  her  sister's  family;  gentle  figure  of 
the  mother-guardian,  who  would  soon  be  the 
beloved  grandmother  sharing  with  her  sister 
the  joys  of  younger  households  which  would 
soon  be  formed,  offsprings  of  that  home 
which  her  devoted  tenderness  as  aunt  and 
sister  at  present  cultivated.  As  he  came  to  a 
close,  the  poet  raised  his  cup  of  sparkling 
wine  and,  in  exalted  voice,  drank  to  the 
health  of  Zeze  amidst  the  loud  huzzahs  of 
all  present. 

"Long  live  Aunt  Z£z6!  Hurrah  for  Aunt 
Zeze!"  cried  the  children,  glass  in  hand, 
while  the  nieces  laughed  loudly,  blushing  to 
the  ears,  for  they  had  understood  very  well 
the  poet's  reference  to  future  "younger 
households." 

Fabio  and  his  wife,  their  eyes  somewhat 


148  BRAZILIAN    TALES 

brightened  by  the  strong  champagne,  pro 
posed  in  turn  their  toast  to  Zeze. 

"Here's  to  Zez<§  and  the  eighteen  happy 
years  we've  lived  together!  ..." 

Maria-Jose,  as  soon  as  she  had  seized  the 
significance  of  Monjardin's  verses,  had 
grown  deathly  pale;  stricken  by  sudden  dis 
illusionment,  she  felt  a  glacial  chill  over 
whelm  her  body  to  the  very  marrow;  she 
feared  that  she  would  faint  straightway  and 
provide  a  spectacle  for  the  guests,  who  were 
all  drinking  her  health,  their  eyes  fo cussed 
upon  her.  A  veil  of  tears  spread  before  her 
sight  ...  In  vain  she  tried  to  repress  them, 
to  force  a  smile  of  thanks  upon  her  face. 
The  smile  wrinkled  into  a  dolorous  grimace; 
she  succeeded  only  in  convulsing  her  con 
tracted  visage  with  the  sobs  that  she  sought 
to  restrain.  Overcome  at  last,  humiliated, 
powerless,  she  broke  into  tears,  and  this  un 
foreseen  denouement  put  an  end  at  once  to 
all  the  pleasure  of  the  dinner. 

"Zeze!  Zeze!    What  ails  you?  ..." 

Engracigna  had  rushed  to  her  side  in 
alarm ;  everyone  rose,  seeking  the  reason  for 
the  outburst;  they  surrounded  the  poor  crea 
ture,  whose  head  had  sunk  upon  the  table, 
in  the  midst  of  the  rose  petals,  the  fruits  and 


AUNT  ZEZE'S  TEARS  149 

the  glasses  which  were  strewn  in  charming 
confusion. 

"What  is  the  trouble?  .  .  ." 

A  nervous  attack,  perhaps?  .  .  .  Confusion 
produced  in  her  by  the  touching  poem?  . . . 

Finally  they  raised  Maria-Josh's  head  and 
bathed  it  in  cool  water;  whereupon  the  face 
of  the  poor  old  maid  stood  revealed  in  all  the 
ugliness  that  her  spasms  of  convulsive  weep 
ing  cast  over  it,  with  her  large  aquiline  nose, 
her  protruding  eyes  and  her  livid  lips  .  .  . 

And  now  Monjardin  drew  near.  Delicate 
ly  raising  the  icy  fingers  of  Maria-Jos6  he 
lifted  them  to  the  edge  of  his  perfumed  mous 
tache  and  placed  upon  them  a  grateful  kiss; 
then,  turning  to  Engracigna's  daughters  he 
said,  with  a  solemn,  self-complacent  tone, 
"Aunt  ZSze^s  tears  are  the  most  beautiful 
homage  that  could  be  rendered  to  my  poor 
verses." 


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